


The Nord's Guide to Practical Magic

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Neglect, Corpse Desecration, Fantastic Racism, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Moonshine, Multi, Nord Mages, Teenage Rebellion, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-03 17:58:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 40,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14574474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Bjarni Ulfricsson is something of an embarrassment to his patriotic, conservative parents. He drinks with Dunmer, hangs out with Argonians, and worst of all he uses magic at the family dinner in front of his sorcery-hating grandfather. Frustrated, Ulfric sends him to the College to at least make him useful. Dengeir predicts it won't end well. His mother wants him to kill Thalmor and Legion spies. Mirabelle Ervine is wondering which god she annoyed today. Savos Aren sees the solution to several problems. Korir keeps on praying to Talos.In between trying to learn magic, Bjarni might just be the one to save the world from yet another Thalmor plot.He's going to need a good sujamma still and some better Illusion spells.





	1. Introduction: How To Get Sent to the College

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of child abuse/abandonment/neglect/death, drug/alcohol abuse and war crimes. Set about five years before canon. This is around 4E 196, so Bjarni's eighteen.

 

_“Magic is an often-ignored or underused tool among the Nords. We disdain it even as we use it every day – the Fire-Call galdur, for instance, is a very simple Flames spell that almost every Nord knows. I bet you didn’t know that.”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson, _The Nord’s Guide to Practical Magic_

“Stendarr have mercy on you, because I don’t think Father’s going to. What the _hell_ were you thinking last night?”

            Bjarni Ulfricsson kept his eyes screwed tightly shut against both the bright morning light and his brother Egil’s tirade. The ale and mead had been flowing freely last night in honour of Jarl Dengeir’s visit to Windhelm, more freely than usual, and he hadn’t exercised the same caution he did when drinking bloodwine, flin, sujamma or matze. Or his body just wasn’t used to the potency of Black-Briar Reserve and Barley-Beard Gold. Either way, he was hungover and trying to remember what happened.

            Egil sighed. “I’m guessing you _weren’t_ thinking last night. Grandfather’s practically foaming at the mouth, Mother’s ready to murder you and Father’s trying to smooth everything over.”

            Despite himself, Bjarni’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Whatever I did, it had to be good.”

            “Of _course_ you don’t remember.” Egil now sounded disgusted with him. “You only cast Levitation in front of our magic-hating grandfather and half the damned court!”

            Clothing, clean and smelling of pine needles, was thrown over his face. “Get dressed and be in the Great Hall within the hour. Father needs to decide what to do with you.”

            Bjarni reluctantly pulled himself out of his comfortable four-poster bed, drank the weak healing potion he kept stashed in his bedside table for emergencies like this, and used Flames to melt the frozen water in the pewter ewer before washing his face and upper torso. An hour wasn’t nearly long enough to have a proper steam bath but this would do. The enchanted ivory comb he bought from Sadri’s Used Wares combed out the tangles in his shoulder-length dark hair and the ever-sharp razor from the same place removed the patchy two-day stubble. He wasn’t able to grow a proper beard yet, so he just shaved every few days.

            The clothing was drab brown and dusty blue, nothing like the vivid colours Bjarni liked. There was a subtle warning from Egil in the choice and he took it to heart. Ulfric would be passing judgement on more than just last night.

            Ralof Storm-Hammer, Ulfric’s chief field agent and the combat trainer for his sons, was waiting outside. “Brace yourself,” the deceptively easy-going Plainsman advised, his long sun-blond hair sweeping over one shoulder. “Dengeir’s rabid.”

            “He’s always been rabid,” Bjarni pointed out as he accepted the breakfast, a hastily flatbread-wrapped hunk of cheese and ham, Ralof handed him. In some ways, the handsome southerner was more a parent to him and Egil than their own.

            “Magic brings out the worst in him. He’s claiming you’re a changeling magicked up by the Thalmor.” Ralof shook his head at the blatant idiocy. “Wuunferth was ready to kill him then and there.”

            “Magic is a fact of life,” Bjarni pointed out in between bites. “I’m not saying we should become dependent on it, but we need more mages to counter the Thalmor.”

            “That’s the argument Galmar’s been making. Most of us can call fire and heal minor wounds. Your mother’s got no problem with Destruction magic. Even Ulfric admitted the Thu’um is a kind of ancient sorcery.”

            “So why does Mother want to kill me?” Bjarni asked.

            “Because you’ve ruined your chance to inherit Falkreath. Dengeir won’t let the Stag Throne pass to a mage.” Ralof’s expression was sombre, a far cry from his usual grin. “I think he’d declare you nithing too, if it wasn’t for the fact Ulfric’s men are the only thing keeping him Jarl.”

            “If I’m disinherited… That means Siddgeir is the heir,” Bjarni said slowly. He honestly didn’t give a shit about the Stag Throne, but Siddgeir was the Imperial-raised son of Balgeir, a hostage for his uncle’s good behaviour and reportedly a spendthrift dandy with Cyrod tastes.

            “Probably. Dengeir’s not known for thinking his decisions through.” Ralof’s tone dripped scorn. He came from a village on the border with Falkreath Hold, his sister’s lumber mill a rival for the Kreathling ones. There were stories in those words.

            “Well, there’s always Egil, I suppose,” Bjarni sighed.

            “He’s supposed to inherit Windhelm.” Ralof shrugged as they walked through the halls of the Palace of the Kings.

            Bjarni sighed again. Egil was the favourite son because he was a ‘true Nord’ by Ulfric’s standards, though his preference for Stendarr over Talos irritated their mother Sigdrifa. Come to think of it, anything that didn’t involve Talos or war irritated their mother.

            They reached the Great Hall, where most of the family already sat at the high table with breakfast laid out before them. Bjarni strode over and sat beside Galmar on his father’s right side, Ralof taking the seat next to him. Dengeir, sitting in the guest of honour’s chair, was an unhealthy shade of red this morning and his turquoise eyes glittered malevolently.

            “You’ve got balls, boy, sitting down with us so brazenly,” the patriarch of the Kreathlings hissed. “Tainted by filthy magic!”

            Bjarni would have pointed out that he was sharing the high table with three other magic users but Egil’s subtle headshake stopped him. Instead he took his sweet time selecting a bread roll still warm from the oven, breaking it open and smearing butter on the soft centre. Ulfric had a plate heaped high with meat in front of him and a flagon of mead this early in the morning. Sigdrifa was eating her usual bowl of gruel sweetened with snowberries and Egil had bread, cheese and ham on his plate. Ralof and Galmar simply ate whatever they could grab.

            There were iron braziers located along the walls and at either side of the Throne of Ysgramor but the Great Hall was still cold. The entire Palace of the Kings was dark, dank and dreary, its walls hung with faded battle banners, its floors made of cold flagstone and unsoftened by rugs, rushes or furs. Bjarni honestly wondered if he was the only one who felt the oppressive chill of five thousand years of history even in summer around here.

            Ulfric took a largish mouthful of mead before speaking. “He wasn’t using Conjuration, Dengeir.”

            “It’s all the same,” the Jarl of Falkreath retorted. “Filthy mages get inside your head and make you do things! That’s the only reason I married Sigdrifa’s mother, you know. Her filthy Reacher sorcery…”

            “You married her because it bought peace from the Lost Valley Reachmen,” Sigdrifa corrected icily. “Mother, as I recall, couldn’t even use the Fire-Call galdur.”

            Dengeir ignored her, glaring at Bjarni. “I was going to make you my heir. But you’re a filthy mage. Won’t have magic in my Hold.”

            “We understand and accept that,” Ulfric said smoothly. “But when the gods close one door, they open another.”

            “Korir won’t be happy,” Sigdrifa said dourly.

            “I value Korir as one of my allies. But whether he likes it or not, the College exists and must be dealt with.” Ulfric shifted in his seat and eyed Bjarni opaquely. When his father had his gambling face on, no one could read him. “I’m sending you to the College of Winterhold. If you’re going to be a mage, you might as well be a useful one.”

            Egil laughed, turning the sound into a cough when Ulfric raised an eyebrow. Now, Bjarni was willing to admit that his brother was a better scholar than him, but surely magic didn’t all involve sitting around reading books all day. He’d learned Levitation from a bored Dunmer sailor after a few drinks at the New Gnisis Cornerclub. There would be hands-on training at the College.

            “You’re joking,” Dengeir said flatly. “You should be purging the magic, not encouraging it!”

            “Bjarni is a grown man, even if he hasn’t been on his ice wraith hunt yet,” Ulfric rumbled darkly. “It’s not like we can just dump him at a farm and forget about him.”

            Sigdrifa blanched and Dengeir went puce at the latter statement. _Interesting._ Bjarni knew better than to ask questions though.

            “I have no intentions of learning Conjuration,” he said soothingly. “But I’ve heard stories about how certain Illusion spells can increase unit cohesion in combat by making the soldiers more courageous, how you could provoke enemies to attack with a Fury or Frenzy spell…”

            “Mer magics,” Galmar grated. “Stick to Destruction and Restoration. A bit of Alteration is allowable – I can see the use in your Levitation spell and I’ve seen some genius use of Telekinesis.”

            “Don’t neglect your combat skills,” Sigdrifa added after she’d collected herself.

            “I won’t,” Bjarni promised. It was sinking in that he was being sent to the College.

            Part of him was elated at the freedom. The rest was a little terrified at being without the support of Egil or Ralof.

            “This will end poorly,” Dengeir prophesised. “Mark my words, Ulfric. Magic always ends poorly.”

            “I don’t know,” Bjarni told his grandfather cheerfully. “It means I don’t have to put up with your crazy-“

            “BJARNI!” Ulfric roared, his Thu’um sending pewter and wooden crockery clanging against the stone floor. There was a reason they didn’t use ceramic plates in the Palace of the Kings.

            “That’s quite enough,” Sigdrifa said into the silence that followed her husband’s Shout. “This isn’t a holiday, boy. This is a mission. You must learn useful magic and sway the College to supporting us. Eliminating any Legion or Thalmor spies is expected of you.”

            _Of course._ It was an open secret that Sigdrifa and Ulfric had been consolidating power in the Old Holds to eventually lead a crusade against the western ones to reinstate Talos worship and incidentally throw the Empire out. Bjarni wondered how Skyrim would survive without Imperial trade or the labour of other races. Half of Windhelm’s commerce was in the Grey and Dock Quarters between Dunmer, Argonian and Nord.

            “Yes, Mother,” he said through gritted teeth. She knew how to suck the joy out of any occasion.

            “You might as well leave today,” Ulfric continued. “Ralof will escort you to Winterhold. I expect you to show respect to Jarl Korir. If it wasn’t for Winterhold, we’d have nowhere to train our soldiers.”

            Korir was only a little less of an arse than Dengeir and hated magic just as much. Bjarni had to wonder if this was a punishment.

            “Thankfully, there’s none of those Dunmer degenerates you like to hang out with,” Sigdrifa added. “No strong drink either.”

            Bjarni grinned. “Maybe I’ll learn how to turn water into mead.”

            “That isn’t magically possible,” Wuunferth said, speaking for the first time. “You can speed up the process of fermentation, but you need something to ferment first.”

            Bjarni was both disappointed and elated. He knew how to distil sujamma from yams. Dunmer honestly had the best alcohols, excellent brews that warmed the belly in Windhelm’s cold climate. Maybe he could build a still at the College.

            “Don’t encourage him,” Sigdrifa told the court wizard. “He’s reckless and well on his way to becoming a degenerate drunk respected only by the greyskins and the lizards.”

            “I was simply explaining that it wouldn’t work,” Wuunferth countered, unbothered by Sigdrifa’s icy blue-green glare.

            “I’m choosing to treat you like an adult,” Ulfric said sternly. “An adult that has chosen his own path, however disappointing it may be to me personally. Don’t piss on my trust, Bjarni, or I will have no choice but to disown you.”

            How did his father manage to both praise and insult him at the same time? Bjarni had long ago concluded that Ulfric was a conflicted man. His mother was much simpler – everything existed for the glory of Talos and the freedom of Skyrim – but Ulfric was hard to pin down.

            “I’ll try not to,” Bjarni replied. “But have a little faith in me, Father. My socialising with the Dunmer and Argonians has relieved tensions more than once. They live here too, you know, and you can’t just march them to the border and forget about them. Half our economy would collapse and Nords drawn away from the army to take their places.”

            “I recognise the usefulness of the Argonians,” Ulfric conceded. “But the Dunmer refuse to assimilate. You can never truly trust a mer, Bjarni. Remember that.”

            There were a few mer Bjarni would trust over Nords but he chose not to say anything. He was on thin ice as it was. He could see that much.

            Ulfric nodded dismissively. “Pack a few things. It’s a long walk to Winterhold.”

            Bjarni nodded tightly. “Yes, Father.”

            Was this punishment, a mission… or exile?


	2. Chapter 1: How to Reach Winterhold and Make Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

_“Every time you read or hear a reference to the Clever Craft in the Eddas, you learn that we had our own magic once. Jhunal, the god of magic and mathematics, was patron of our rune-binders, our clever-folk, and our wonder-smiths. Much of the old galdur and seidr-magics have been lost. But on the shores of the Sea of Ghosts and at the Skyforge, they remember the old magics… and practice them.”_

Master Alterationist Tolfdir, _Magic of Snow and Sky_

“Just so you know, I get seasick,” Ralof said wryly as they settled into the fishing boat. Ragnar Broken-Tusk and his two sons caught sea-salmon and hunted horkers in the waters of the Pale and Winterhold before selling their catch on the docks of Windhelm. Since they were due to go home, Ragnar happily agreed to trade a ride to Winterhold in return for a few bottles of Barley-Beard Gold Bjarni smuggled out of the Palace in the guise of supplies.

            “Don’t vomit on the sacks,” Ragnar advised laconically as he pushed off from the dock.

            His elder son Horik laughed while the younger one Onmund busied himself with carving something from horker ivory. Probably one of the luck charms that most northern sailors and fishers wore. Miraculously, Onmund’s were known to work. He was a known rune-binder.

            They rowed out of Windhelm harbour and caught a wind that filled the red-striped sail. Ragnar tacked towards the north, hugging the coast and cutting through the narrow channels between icebergs.

            “Do you know if there’s any Nords at the College?” Bjarni asked Ralof as they sailed along.

            “Hmm… I know old Wuunferth trained there and Balgruuf’s new court wizard Farengar came from the College, but I don’t know of any other Nords,” the hearthman replied. “I know there’s a lot of Dunmer though.”

            “Master Tolfdir,” Onmund piped up from his seat at the prow. “He’s a Nord and has been there since the Oblivion Crisis.”

            Ragnar frowned. “What do you have to do with the College, Bjarni Ulfricsson? I’ve heard of dark dealings there.”

            “I’m a mage,” Bjarni admitted. “My parents figure I might as well be a useful one.”

            “See, Father?” Onmund said. “If Ulfric’s letting his son be a mage, why can’t I go to the College?”

            “Because what can they teach you about the Clever Craft that you already don’t know?” Ragnar countered. “We have our magics and the mer have theirs, lad. No need to get mixed up in that Dawn rubbish.”

            “But I don’t know all of the Clever Craft! I only know the fishing and hunting magics,” Onmund retorted. “Who knows what I can learn from Master Tolfdir?”

            “They’re digging around in Saarthal,” Ragnar said disapprovingly. “Who knows what they’ll raise there?”

            Bjarni wouldn’t mind another Nord around his own age at the College. “Master Ragnar,” he said calmly. “I will need all the allies I can get in Winterhold. The Broken-Tusk name is known for honour even in the Palace of the Kings. Onmund is a gifted rune-binder. Having a hearthman with such knowledge among the mer would be… useful.”

            “I know you go drinking with the Dunmer every chance you get,” Ragnar pointed out.

            “But there’s a substantial group of Altmer, possibly even Thalmor agents,” Bjarni replied. “I can count on the Dunmer telling the Thalmor to go fuck themselves but the Altmer…”

            “Dunmer don’t like Nords but they like the Thalmor even less,” Horik confirmed with a sigh. “Look, Da, Onmund’s gonna go regardless. Would you rather he go with our blessing as Bjarni’s hearthman or just piss off one night and leave Ma crying?”

            “Please, Da,” Onmund said softly.

            Ragnar’s expression was troubled. “I don’t want you to wind up soul-trapped or something! What if you get killed by a necromancer?”

            “That could happen to him on the water,” Ralof said gravely. “Plenty of the bastards set up shop in Skyrim because of our draugr and isolation. Talos knows I’ve killed enough of them.”

            The fisherman closed his eyes. “You won’t see Sovngarde, probably. But… fine. I hope you realise it’s a load of rubbish best left to the mer and come home soon.”

            “I’ll come back as a master of the Clever Craft,” Onmund promised. “They’ll know my name from one end of Skyrim to the other.”

            The rest of the trip was conducted in silence and at the rickety dock under the bridge between Winterhold and the College, Onmund was deposited with them. “I’ll send money back,” he promised his father.

            “I’d rather you changed your mind,” Ragnar said as he poled out. “Talos with you, son.”

            “And you.” Onmund watched his family sail towards Dawnstar with a heavy sigh.

            “I will need friends like you at the College,” Bjarni told him gently. “We need to show our fellow Nords that magic is a tool, one we should be using. Even my father admits the Thu’um is a kind of sorcery and my mother likes to use Lightning Cloak in battle.”

            “Really?” Onmund’s eyes brightened.

            “Really. My father’s about as happy as yours I’m a mage and Grandpa Dengeir actively disowned me. At least your family’s objections came from a concern for you.”

            “Yeah. I mean, on the boat, we risk the sea-death all the time,” Onmund said with another sigh. “Let’s go. It’s quite the hike up the hill.”

            Winterhold was more ruin than town after the Great Collapse eighty years ago. Jarl Korir Jorksen, his daughter Gydda and her son Korir hadn’t even cleared the shattered buildings for firewood and building stone. It was a one-street village with the street leading directly to the College, where a blue-robed Altmer with twin golden ponytails and bright eyes stood by the gate. Two people were arguing in the street, both dressed in shabby, much-mended clothing.

            “We can’t afford it!” the blonde woman yelled.

            “What else should I do? Prance around the College and cast spells all day?” retorted the brown-haired man with the rusty tones of a habitual drunk.

            “At least you won’t be drinking us out of house and home!”

            He turned around and walked to a long low building that had to be the local inn.

            “Get back here!” the woman shrieked.

            “Ranmir and Birna,” Ralof said with a sigh. “He’s been a drunk since his girlfriend ran off and she runs what passes for a general store around here.”

            “Has the Jarl tried to do anything about Winterhold?”

            Ralof snorted. “Aside from bitching and moaning about how he’ll outlast the College and it’s all to blame for Winterhold’s troubles? Not really. Most of his income comes from Whistling Mine to the south.”

            Bjarni knew that somewhere in Winterhold’s frozen interior, a battalion or two of soldiers were training to become Stormcloaks. The Hold was reliant on the food imported by Eastmarch and Korir damn well knew Ulfric had him by the short and curlies. Hence the Jarl’s unconditional support.

            “I better remain on his good side,” he finally said. “Maybe I can make Korir see the benefits the College brings to the Hold.”

            Ralof laughed. “Good luck with that.”

            The inn was named the Frozen Hearth and its owners were Dagur and Haran. Their little girl Eirid played with Korir’s son Assur, they were quite welcoming of any and all guests, and their only problems appeared to be Ranmir’s debts and Nelacar’s experiments. Dagur greeted Ralof easily by name and soon there were two rooms hired, as the Altmer sorcerer had hired the third on a long-term basis. Onmund chose to rent a pallet by the fire-pit and refused any help from Bjarni.

            “What brings you to Winterhold?” asked Haran as she doled out bowls of watery soup from the pot on the fire-pit.

            “The College,” Bjarni admitted. “Onmund and I are hoping to study there.”

            “Don’t let the Jarl hear you say that,” she advised. “He’ll go on for days and we’ll have to hear it.”

            “Korir can get over himself,” Bjarni said bluntly. “He only rules here because my father props him up and no one else wants the job.”

            “He’s Ulfric’s son,” Ralof said with a sigh. “Tact’s not a strong point.”

            “He couldn’t piss off Korir any more than life already has,” Dagur noted. “Still, he better learn some tact. The mages won’t tolerate his attitude.”

            The afternoon progressed to evening and a few mages from the College came across the bridge for a drink. Two in particular caught his eye – a black-haired Dunmer girl around his age and a Khajiit with the markings of a snowy sabre cat. “J’zargo wishes for more competition,” the latter complained.

            “Life isn’t a competition,” the Dunmer said. “Not at the College.”

            “And that is half your trouble,” J’zargo admonished. “You are losing so badly that you cannot see it, Brelyna.”

            “Some of us just want to study in peace,” Brelyna retorted.

            Bjarni exchanged glances with Onmund. Fellow apprentices, from the looks of it.

            “Can we join you?” he asked, smiling at Brelyna. She was quite pretty by anyone’s standards and no one in Winterhold to squawk to his father if he flirted with her. “I’m Bjarni and this is Onmund. We’re hoping to join the College.”

            “Can either of you cast Expert Destruction spells yet?” J’zargo asked eagerly.

            “I can cast Levitation,” Bjarni told him. “Onmund here is a rune-binder. He can make enchanted ivory and bone charms.”

            “You forgot turn seawater into fresh water, summon fish and horkers, brew common healing and frost resistance potions, and call lightning,” Onmund added. “I want to learn more about the old Nord magics.”

            J’zargo sighed. “J’zargo had hoped for someone to keep pace with me.”

            “I learn quickly,” Onmund said. “I’ll keep up.”

            “J’zargo is doubtful but hopes so regardless.”

            The two apprentices made room for Bjarni and Onmund at their table. “Master Tolfdir teaches the basic classes,” Brelyna explained. “There’s a lot of self-paced study and we’re encouraged to travel across Skyrim, particularly on errands for the faculty. Urag is always looking for new books, Sergius will want soul gems filled or goods to be enchanted collected and delivered, and Savos Aren will find group exercises for us to do.”

            “Stay out of Falkreath,” Bjarni advised. “Jarl Dengeir’s batshit crazy and hates mages.”

            “Noted,” Brelyna said. “Bed, board, basic equipment and group training is free. If you want individual teaching, you’ll have to pay or trade for it. Magic is an expensive business with few rewards in the beginning.”

            Bjarni rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He doubted his parents would pay for him to receive specialised training and Onmund’s family definitely couldn’t afford it. “I think it would help all of us to pool our skills,” he suggested. “Onmund knows these seas like the back of his hand, you and J’zargo obviously have superior skills in magic, and I’ve been training as a warrior practically since birth. We work together, split the jobs between us, and share the loot.”

            “J’zargo fails to see the point.” The Khajiit delicately sipped from his flagon.

            “If you try to enter anywhere else other than Winterhold, the city guards are going to throw you out on your arse because you’re Khajiit,” Bjarni said bluntly. “That’s assuming they don’t toss you in jail. I can go anywhere in Skyrim but Falkreath Hold. I can get you what you need in the cities and you could get me decent goods from the caravans.”

            “Put that way, J’zargo sees the point,” he conceded. “J’zargo doubts you are as good a haggler as he though.”

            “I don’t need to be. I’m a Nord,” Bjarni assured him. “I’ll get better prices from most shopkeepers, particularly in the Old Holds.”

            “Why can’t you go to Falkreath Hold?” Brelyna asked, nursing her flagon of cheap ale.

            “Because Dengeir’s batshit crazy and hates mages,” Bjarni said.

            “I could argue that’s all Nords,” she observed dryly.

            “Not all Nords. I cast Levitation in front of him and damn near gave the old bastard a heart-attack.” Bjarni grinned. “My mother could have killed me.”

            “I’m guessing you hold a bit of a grudge there,” Brelyna said wryly.

            “Just a bit,” Bjarni admitted. “So, what brings a beautiful Dunmer flower like yourself to these chilly parts?”

            “My parents reserved a place for me in the College the day I was,” she replied. “I come from a bloodline steeped in magic and they never let me forget it back home.”

            “Telvanni?” Bjarni remembered that being the Great House involved in sorcery.

            “Yes!” she said in surprise. “I didn’t expect a common Nord to guess that.”

            Bjarni’s mouth quirked to the side. “I’m not a common Nord. My father’s Ulfric Stormcloak.”

            J’zargo spat out his drink. “Khajiit calls bullshit!”

            “Technically, the Thu’um is sorcery and my mother dabbles in Destruction magic,” Bjarni assured them. “It may surprise you, but there’s an Eastmarcher or two who doesn’t have their head up their arse. I prefer matze to mead and know how to distil a half-decent sujamma.”

            “He’s telling the truth,” Onmund confirmed. “He talked my father into letting me come to the College as his hearthman.”

            “Wow.” Brelyna collected herself rapidly. “There’s a Thalmor at the College. Ancano.”

            “Not for long,” Bjarni promised.

            J’zargo’s ears flattened. “You just cannot kill the Thalmor adviser.”

            “Sure I can. Bit of extra ice on the bridge and whoops, he fell.”

            “He never leaves the College,” Brelyna said. “I don’t like him. He’s up to something.”

            “Of course he is. He’s a Thalmor.” Bjarni leaned back and steepled his fingers. “The Talos I worship united people of different races. Sure, he was a bit of a prick, but he still united a lot of disparate peoples. Ancano might be older and probably more treacherous and a better mage than us. But if we work together, not only will we learn faster, but we might be able to outwit him somehow.”

            “J’zargo came to Skyrim to escape politics,” the Khajiit complained.

            “Then you better move to Solstheim, because that’s the only place free of the Thalmor,” Brelyna told him tartly.

            He sighed. “Fine.”

            She looked back at Bjarni and Onmund. “Your proposal has merit, Bjarni Ulfricsson. I’d be a poor Telvanni if I turned down a chance like this. You know, right, that the Great Houses of Morrowind are worried your father will try to invade us?”

            “He’s more likely going to try and unite Skyrim before taking on the Thalmor,” Bjarni assured her. “I know you don’t like Nords and with some pretty good reason, but I don’t think I’ve ever met the Dunmer who likes the Thalmor.”

            “Given that the Thalmor cling to the lies of the Aedra, you’d be right,” she agreed. “I see no problem with working together while we’re at the College. Maybe some of your tolerance will rub off on the local Nords.”

            Bjarni laughed sourly. “Korir’s pretty damn stupid.”

            “Azura teaches us to have hopes for the future,” Brelyna said piously. “Mephala teaches us to be prepared when hope fails.”

            “And Boethiah?”

            Brelyna smiled. “To prove ourselves real. Maybe one day you will understand.”


	3. Chapter 2: The First Lesson at the College

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“There are no expectations. This College is a place to study and practice magic freely. Hopefully any discoveries made in your pursuits will be shared with the members of the College first. That way we all benefit.”_

Master Wizard Mirabelle Ervine, Introductory Lecture to Apprentices

Ralof made his farewells the next morning and Bjarni heaved a sigh of chagrined relief. He was on his own for the first time in his life… and yet he missed the sun-blond man’s steady affection and guidance. He combed his hair out and gave himself a shave, pulled on his favourite ochre tunic and brown pants, and joined Onmund for a quick breakfast of gruel before walking up to where Faralda, the College’s Destruction Master and gate-guard, waited.

            “Bjarni and Onmund, I presume?” the Altmer asked in a low, sweet voice utterly unlike the haughty tones her kin preferred.

            “Yes, ma’am,” Bjarni said.

            “Before I let you inside, I need to see some proficiency at magic,” Faralda said calmly. “What are your preferred Schools?”

            “Umm, I can cast Ice Spike,” Onmund replied tentatively. “That’s Destruction, right?”

            “It is.” Faralda stepped to the side, gesturing to a target just behind her. “Cast it.”

            Onmund took a deep breath, frost curling around his right hand, and he hit the target with a jagged spike of ice. It lit up briefly and Faralda nodded in satisfaction.

            “Well done.” She glanced at Bjarni. “You?”

            “I know Levitation, the Fire-Call galdur – the Nords’ version of the Flames spell – and the Kyne’s Ease galdur, which is our version of a self-healing spell,” Bjarni said self-consciously. He probably had fewer spells in his body than this woman in her entire body. “I, uh, got drunk and used some magic in front of my family and that’s why I’m here.”

            “Levitation is a spell I normally see Dunmer use,” Faralda noted. “I will assume your preferred School is Alteration. Now, there are five levels of skill in the College: Novice, Apprentice, Adept, Expert and Master. You must show skill at an Apprentice spell to be allowed entrance, as we have no one to spare for teaching absolute novices.”

            Bjarni smiled thinly. “What kind of Apprentice spell? I suppose I’ve got enough gold to pay that old fraud Nelacar for an appropriate spell-book.”

            Faralda chuckled. “I can teach you Magelight for thirty septims. It’s like Candlelight, but you cast it at one place and it sticks for a few minutes. You must demonstrate, above all things, focus.”

            Bjarni rummaged in his belt-pouch and handed over the coins. Faralda pocketed them and closed her eyes, placing her hands on his temples. They were soft and warm and he could feel the magicka in him rising in response.

            Echoing Onmund’s earlier action, he gathered light and threw it at the target. A turquoise ball hovered over the target, making the outlines glow.

            “That was well done,” Faralda said approvingly. “Now follow me, Apprentices.”

            Bjarni shared a grin with Onmund as they walked along the twisty bridge, Faralda lighting beacons with a casual wave of her hand.

            “Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard, will interview you both,” she explained. “Do either of you have any idea what you’d like to do here?”

            “Learn more about the Clever Craft, our native Nord magics,” Onmund said eagerly. “I’ve spoken to Master Tolfdir once or twice.”

            “He did mention a young Nord with an interest in the old magics to us,” Faralda said. “I suspect he’ll become your primary mentor. What about you, Bjarni?”

            “My father is Ulfric, the Jarl of Windhelm,” Bjarni replied. “I’m interested in the Illusion spells that bolster your allies and drive away your enemies, probably some Destruction and Alteration too. I’m a warrior first… but I recognise the usefulness of magic in warfare.”

            “Drevis is our Illusion Master. Do you have any problems with mer?” she asked.

            “I quite like the Dunmer. As for Altmer and Bosmer, the only issue I have is with the Thalmor,” Bjarni answered honestly. “If Ancano tries anything, I _will_ kill him.”

            “Don’t do anything we can be blamed for – or at least leave no evidence,” she said grimly. “Some of our faculty have family in the Aldmeri Dominion who could be targeted if Ancano’s blatantly murdered.”

            “I’ll do my best,” Bjarni promised.

            They reached the courtyard, where a small fine-boned Breton woman was arguing with a well-bred Altmer in a Thalmor coat. “Mirabelle Ervine,” Faralda said. “She’ll interview you and show you two around. Good luck.”

            Mirabelle caught sight of them and turned away from Ancano. “Ah, you two must be the new Apprentices Brelyna told me about.”

            Bjarni bowed a little floridly. “Master Wizard, I am Bjarni Ulfricsson and this is my hearthman Onmund Broken-Tusk. We are honoured to attend your fine institution.”

            “There’s only one Ulfric I know of and he doesn’t strike me as the type to approve of magic,” Mirabelle noted with a raised eyebrow.

            “I might have cast Levitation in front of my magic-hating grandfather,” Bjarni admitted cheerfully. “Father sent me here because if I was going to be a mage, I might as well be a useful one.”

            “The College is aware of Dengeir’s distrust of sorcery,” Mirabelle said coolly.

            “I think most of Skyrim is. He never shuts up about it.”

            “Hasn’t Ulfric been acting treasonous these past two decades by forbidding Justicars in his Hold?” Ancano asked haughtily.

            “I don’t recall any treason,” Bjarni told him. “Father hasn’t signed the White-Gold Concordat, so he’s breaking no laws.”

            “Politics is to stay outside the College,” Mirabelle said crisply. “Ancano, if you don’t have anything better to do, find something. I won’t have you harassing the students.”

            “Of course,” Ancano said snidely as he smoothed down his robes. “Good day, Master Wizard.”

            He stalked towards the main hall and Mirabelle made a disgusted noise. Then she sighed and glanced back at the two Nords. “What brings you to the College?”

            They repeated their reasons and Mirabelle nodded. “We can accommodate the pair of you. Your quarters will be in the Hall of Attainment and the Hall of Elements is where you’ll be taking your first lessons with Master Tolfdir. Follow me.”

            The Hall of Attainment was a triple-storied stone tower with enough space to give everyone their own room. Bjarni’s quarters were simple, a comfortable bed covered in more furs than were necessary taking up most of it, the rest sturdy dark shelving and bookcases. It was warm and draft-free, which was more than could be said for the Palace of the Kings. Onmund was speechless at his room; to a fisherman, it was probably luxury beyond comprehension.

            Mirabelle let them unpack their things and disappeared for about ten minutes, returning with plain blue robes. “In the College, you’ll be expected to wear these,” she explained, raising an eyebrow at the chainmail shirt Bjarni was hanging from a hook. “That’s so we can identify you as Apprentices in an emergency.”

            “Fair enough,” Bjarni agreed easily. “I’ll be continuing my morning calisthenics and weapons training, if that’s allowed. I’d hate to return home and Egil kick my arse for being lazy.”

            “You can do as you wish so long as you demonstrate _some_ progress in your magical training,” Mirabelle assured him. “I suspect you’ll be spending a lot of time with Drevis. Illusion spells have ended… and started… wars.”

            “I know. Even if I can just counter some Thalmor bastard using Fear or Frenzy on my troops, it’ll be worth it,” Bjarni said. “I do want to learn some Destruction and Alteration too. Trap-spells and Mass Paralysis can control a battlefield.”

            “You can direct your study as you wish,” Mirabelle repeated. “Now get changed and I’ll hand you over to Tolfdir.”

            Tolfdir was a spry old Nord with twinkling blue eyes, braided ice-white hair and a broad smile on his face. “It’s been too long since we had a Nord apprentice and now we’ve got two,” he said as they entered the Hall of the Elements. J’zargo and Brelyna were already there.

            “One wants to study the old Nord magics and the other fancies himself a would-be magical general,” Mirabelle told him dryly.

            “Not everyone comes to the College for love of knowledge,” Tolfdir replied. “Some come for practical reasons.”

            Bjarni took his place by Brelyna. “What is he lecturing about?” he hissed.

            “Magical safety,” she responded with a wrinkle of her nose. “He’s treating us like children.”

            “When it comes to magic, I’m probably a kid,” Bjarni pointed out. “I’d like to know the pitfalls, myself.”

            “An Eastmarcher with common sense? Truly, I have lived to see a miracle,” Tolfdir observed wryly. “Since you’re so keen on magical safety, would you care to demonstrate the use of a Lesser Ward for us?”

            “I don’t know that spell,” Bjarni admitted with a flush.

            “See, Apprentices? _This_ is why we have lessons in basic magical safety for everyone,” Mirabelle said from the side. “Tolfdir, please teach Bjarni the Lesser Ward spell.”

            Unlike Faralda, who simply placed the spell in his mind, Tolfdir walked Bjarni through creating his first Ward. The air warped and wavered in front of Bjarni’s hand like a cheap glass window. “Keep it steady,” Tolfdir ordered as he stepped back a few paces. “I’ll be casting a Firebolt now.”

            And he did. The sooty-gold projectile shattered Bjarni’s Ward, the backlash landing him on his arse. The young Nord scrambled to his feet, raising another Ward just in time to fend off an Ice Spike. The third attack, a Lightning spell, just missed his head because he dropped down when he ran out of magicka.

            “Not bad,” Tolfdir approved. “Never be afraid to put some distance between you and a rival in a magical duel. Now, Bjarni, how would you have retaliated to my attacks?”

            “Honestly, picked up a rock and thrown it at your head,” he admitted. “Or a knife at your throat. Few mages consider the use of physical attacks in a fight.”

            Tolfdir clenched his fists and was sheathed in magic that traced every outline in his body. “And what if I used a Skin spell?”

            “Hit you with an axe until you’re dead. Few mages can concentrate on spell-casting when someone’s bashing in their head,” Bjarni replied. “If I were facing you in combat, I’d cast a Ward to disrupt your spells until I got in close, then use an axe or sword. If you were using a Cloak spell to protect yourself from melee attacks, I’d fall back and use a ranged weapon, or a lightning spell to drain your magicka. Or cast Frenzy so that you attacked heedlessly or turned against your allies.”

            “Good at all, master of none, eh?” Tolfdir observed.

            “I’m the son of a Jarl. Even if I don’t ever personally rule, I will have to lead troops into battle. My job’s to keep as many of my people alive as possible.” Bjarni smiled. “Honour doesn’t prevent you from using clever tactics.”

            Tolfdir grinned. “No, it doesn’t. Now, young Onmund, let’s teach you the Ward…”

            The old man drilled them until casting Lesser Ward was second nature. The spell was expensive, draining magicka with every heartbeat, but it could disrupt most of the popular mage-attack spells. Greater spells like Blizzard and Firestorm, Tolfdir explained, were saved for battlemages who had a lot of protection because they took so long to cast.

            Dinner was bread and cheese. The College bartered enchanting services for food with many poorer Nords and otherwise bought their supplies through proxies in Solitude and Windhelm. Sumptuous quarters, lean larders, and Bjarni made that observation to Onmund after dinner.

            The Paler bit his lip. “I don’t think they consider much outside of the College and magic,” he finally said. “Mirabelle seems pretty practical but… she’s a noble. Most nobles don’t think about where the food comes from or what to do when it runs out. Savos is even worse. He’s absolutely obsessed with Labyrinthian and the Dragon Priests.”

            “Good thing we’re here then,” Bjarni said as he cracked open a bottle of mead. He really needed to set up that sujamma still quickly. “Because I think half the problem is the College’s isolation from the rest of Skyrim.”

            “What’s the other half?”

            Bjarni’s smile was thin. “Korir. And I think I need to sort him out sooner rather than later.”


	4. Chapter 3: Ancient History of the Nords and Dunmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“Pretending that we don’t use magic almost every day is like pretending you don’t get wet when it rains in Falkreath almost every day.”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson, _The Nord’s Guide to Practical Magic_

Korir’s longhouse was the most substantial building in Winterhold and it still had birds roosting in the thatch, leaks through the smoke-hole and a lack of illumination that would do a Falmer den proud. The Jarl slouched on the battered Winter Throne, a dented copper and garnet circlet on his head, motheaten robes of faded red wool trimmed with rabbit fur around his shoulders. Bjarni pretended to not notice the keg of ale located within easy reach of the throne or the silver goblet held loosely in Korir’s hand. The longhouse reeked of smoke, stale mead and unwashed humanity.

            “Jarl Korir,” he greeted politely with a slight bow.

            “Bjarni Ulfricsson,” Korir replied sourly. “You deign to visit me after going to that fucking College. I thought Ulfric had more respect for me.”

            “I’m a mage. It makes sense for me to attend the College,” Bjarni pointed out. “Father has the greatest respect for you.”

            _More respect than you do for yourself,_ he thought. Bjarni knew when to keep his mouth shut sometimes.

            Korir grunted. “Magic is evil. The mages destroyed the old city of Winterhold, you know.”

            “I thought it was an earthquake,” Bjarni replied calmly.

            “They caused it!”

            “Oh?” Bjarni allowed an eyebrow to arch. “You have proof I can act on so we can demand wergild?”

            “I don’t need proof! I know!” the Jarl shot back.

            “Well, Skyrim’s legal system doesn’t work that way. You should be glad the mages haven’t demanded honour-price at the Moot.”

            “Are you implying I’m lying, boy?” Korir sat up and dropped the goblet. That was a start.

            “I think you’re looking for someone to blame. Someone told me once that the earthbones are all connected and Winterhold lies where two cross paths, like ribs to a spine.” Bjarni shrugged. “I don’t understand geomancy, as the College calls it. I only know that like the Palace of the Kings, the College has deep roots in old bones. Maybe that’s why it still stands. Our ancestors were wondrous enchanters, you know.”

            “A true Nord would never stoop to magic!”

            “Uh, _The Song of Return_ clearly states that Wuuthrad was forged from Ysgramor’s tears. Now, since even the best Alterationist can’t weep ebony, Master Tolfdir tells me it was more likely the Storm’s Tears were _quenched_ in Ysgramor’s tears. I’m presuming an educated man like yourself knows how wonder-smiths work, right?”

            It was a struggle to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Bjarni honestly didn’t understand how someone could sit around and do nothing while his Hold rotted from within. If Korir couldn’t rule, maybe he should step down and let someone else sit on the Winter Throne.

            “You don’t need to treat me like an idiot, boy,” Korir retorted sourly.

            “Well, stop acting like one. My father respects you too much to give you the boot up the arse you sorely need. Thankfully, I don’t have that problem.”

            Korir’s face went almost as red as his auburn hair. “You insolent son of a she-troll!”

            “I’ll grant my mother’s not the loveliest of women in looks or personality, but I think that’s a bit much.” Bjarni shifted a little, watching the Jarl. “You want some respect, Korir? Pull your head out of your arse. There’s a Thalmor agent I can’t touch without repercussions at the College. Bandits are setting up shop all over the Hold, including two critically placed forts, since the Legion moved out last year. You haven’t even cleaned out the ruins for salvageable material or reminded the College they owe a fair bit of tax and tithe that could help rebuild Winterhold. So grow a spine and be a Jarl or piss off so someone else can do the job. I’d rather not do it, myself. I have magic lessons to take.”

            Korir was nearly as red as Dengeir had been and he actually shook with rage. Thank the gods he didn’t have a huscarl, only his wife Thaena. And she was visiting Dawnstar to collect more dried fish for the winter.

            Bjarni shrugged and turned away dismissively. He wondered how many steps he’d get to the door before Korir exploded.

            “Don’t you walk away from me, you little sack of shit!” Korir bellowed. “Face me like a man!”

            “Act like one and I’ll consider it,” Bjarni tossed over his shoulder.

            Korir howled and leapt off his throne. Bjarni had just enough time to turn around and throw the charging Jarl over his hip. A knee drop to the gut pinned him in place and he was dismayed to discover how soft Korir’s gut was. “Soft belly, soft mind,” Galmar used to say when he taught Bjarni and Egil how to wrestle.

            “Father doesn’t much like magic either, but he still sent me to the College when he found out I could use it,” Bjarni said quietly. “The Fire-Call galdur is magic. The Kyne’s Ease galdur is magic. If you tell me you’ve never used either of those, I’d call you a liar.”

            Judging by the dawning realisation in Korir’s blue eyes, the Jarl had never made the connection.

            “My father says that the Thu’um is a kind of sorcery. I have to trust he knows what he’s talking about there.” Bjarni stood up and offered Korir his hand. “Magic exists, most of us use it, and the College isn’t going anywhere. You can accept those facts or continue to wallow in the dark drinking bad mead. It’s all the same to me.”

            Korir accepted Bjarni’s hand and was pulled to his feet. Egil took after Sigdrifa’s sinewy frame but Bjarni had all of Ulfric’s bulk and the muscle to prove it. “Did your father order you to say this?”

            “Talos, no,” Bjarni said wryly. “I might actually get an arse-kicking when I get home for it. Father thinks I’m too disrespectful to certain Jarls.”

            “I can’t imagine why,” Korir wheezed.

            “Because life’s too short to be full of shit,” Bjarni admitted cheerfully. “Dengeir disowned me because he hates magic. That’ll put my _dear_ cousin Siddgeir, Imperial lackey extraordinaire, as next in line. I don’t want to see another Hold fall because the Empire promises to fix all its problems.”

            Korir practically collapsed into a nearby seat, panting. He was red-faced and sweaty despite the chill. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

            “You were half-drunk. I needed to get your attention.” Bjarni squatted on his haunches before the Jarl. “I want to help. The College is too isolated and you lack credibility. Tell me, how can I start to fix that?”

            Korir raked back sweat-sodden hair. “I need the Helm of Winterhold. It belonged to Hanse and he was the last great Jarl of Winterhold.”

            Bjarni nodded. “I think we can find it. If you don’t have any objections, me and my hearthman could probably look for it. He’s one of the Broken-Tusks out of Dawnstar and a damned fine rune-binder. Probably a better mage than I’ll ever be.”

            “You would go search for it yourself?” Korir asked. “I was expecting you to get Ralof to do it.”

            “Ralof answers to my father. I can’t use him as my gofer.” Bjarni chuckled. “Besides, I can probably get J’zargo to help out. Be it draugr or bandit, he’s game for almost anything if the loot’s good. Magic is an expensive business.”

            Korir chuckled weakly. “You trust a Khajiit?”

            “I trust he’s better at fireballs than me and Onmund,” Bjarni countered. “Talos made allies of other races. I see no reason why we shouldn’t.”

            The Jarl slumped back with a sigh. “Nelacar told me the Helm’s just over the border in Eastmarch at the wreckage of the _Pride of Tel Vos_. I thought him a liar, but it’s worth a chance to look for it there.”

            “I’ve heard there’s bandits operating there,” Bjarni observed. “Well, I better take Onmund and J’zargo along.”

            “Good luck,” Korir said. “I think you’re going to need it.”

…

“Did you just say _The Pride of Tel Vos?_ ”

            “Yeah,” Bjarni admitted. He was spilling the news to Onmund and J’zargo that he’d volunteered them to go search for the Helm of Windhelm when Brelyna passed by and overheard.

            “Can I come with you?” she asked. “That was the flagship of the Telvanni fleet before the Red Year. It vanished – with the infant heir of the Great House – after the Argonian invasion. There are… inheritance issues… that need to be resolved with the confirmation of Brandlyn’s demise.”

            “I see no reason why not.”

            And that was how four apprentice mages travelled down to a battered shipwreck filled with the lousiest bandits between Winterhold and Windhelm. J’zargo’s fireballs and Onmund’s ice spikes took out the archers while Bjarni charged the bandit chief with Brelyna Conjuring a Flame Atronach. He reminded himself that the Dunmer worshipped Daedric Princes so summoning such creatures wasn’t against their religion. It still unnerved him though, despite his personal liking of many Dunmer.

            The only one to put up any kind of fight was the bandit chief. Judging by his gladius and shield, he’d been in the Legion, and the combat style confirmed that. But they’d waited until nightfall, when the bandits would be drunk and tired, before attacking.

            Honour didn’t forbid clever tactics after all.

            They found a good cache of loot, including Hanse’s helm – still bright after centuries! – and a diary written in Dunmeri that made Brelyna frown. “Dammit!” she swore. “Brandyl survived Morrowind but the nurse doesn’t say what happened after that.”

            “Maybe fire-scrying?” Onmund suggested tentatively. Drevis’ last lecture had been about the use of Clairvoyance and its variant spells to find things.

            “Not here, not tonight,” Brelyna said. “But soon. If Brandyl’s alive, that makes the inheritance situation even more difficult.”

            “Why?” J’zargo asked.

            “Because he’s the rightful heir but unless he grew up in the Grey Quarter, he has no idea of our ways,” the Dunmer girl replied. “At the least, I’d have to marry him, to bring the two claims together.”

            “I thought Dunmer frowned on cousin marriage,” Bjarni observed.

            “He’s my third cousin, so it’s permitted. When the Argonians massacred his family, my line became prominent, mostly because Neloth didn’t want the Council seat.” Brelyna sighed and tucked the book in her satchel. “He’s easily two centuries my senior.”

            “If he’s alive, you could probably scare him into refusing his inheritance by pointing out that Morrowind is a dusty place full of assassins and politicians,” Onmund suggested.

            Brelyna grinned. “Mephala would approve. Boethiah would say ‘eliminate him’ and Azura suggest I rule through him.”

            Bjarni smirked. “Dunmer aren’t the only ones who use assassins.”

            “Yes, I know.” Brelyna dusted off her hands. “I’ll see what I do when I meet Brandyl, if he’s alive. If he’s long dead, it’s all moot.”

            It was a bit of a walk back to Winterhold but liberal use of Candlelight and Fear spells on the horkers made it easy. Onmund didn’t like killing animals if he wasn’t hunting and Bjarni agreed. No one wanted to disrespect Kyne like that.

            “You know,” Brelyna said to Bjarni as they walked a bit behind Onmund and J’zargo. “I’m a little surprised you agreed to help me. A weakened Morrowind would be to Ulfric’s advantage.”

            “I’m a little surprised _you_ helped _me_ ,” he countered. “A weakened Skyrim would be to Morrowind’s advantage.”

            “If it was a Skyrim ruled by someone like your parents, yes,” she admitted. “Ulfric might be more interested in uniting Skyrim and kicking the Empire out, but we both know your mother practically considers herself the second coming of Talos. If she takes control, I see her expanding the borders.”

            “For that to happen, Father, Egil and I would have to die, the Jarls refuse to appoint someone like Balgruuf as High King, and my mother to conquer all nine Holds,” Bjarni reassured her. “We’re hoping that once Torygg sees the corruption of the Mede Empire, he’ll lead us in throwing them out.”

            “But your father’s planning to take the High King’s throne if he doesn’t.” It wasn’t a question.

            “We have no choice. The Empire’s raising taxes every year and if people can’t pay in coin or work, they’re being dispossessed. Legion enrolment is up because it grants a limited tax immunity. Skyrim’s bleeding gold and people, Brelyna, and Titus Mede’s too damned ignorant to see that the only winners are the Thalmor. We broke Naarifin’s back at the Battle of the Red Ring. The Thalmor know that in order to win the war, they have to break the Nords.”

            Brelyna nodded grimly. “That matches the assessment back home. If your father wasn’t such a rabid mer-hater, House Redoran would have even reached out for a mutual non-aggression pact.”

            “Da suffered at the Thalmor’s hands. Sadly, he never learned enough history to understand that the Dunmer hate the Altmer for good reason. You don’t like us but you don’t like the Thalmor a whole lot more.”

            She nodded. “Precisely. You think almost like a Redoran, Bjarni. You have honour but you have cunning too.”

            “Talos knows I’ve drunk with enough Dunmer,” he said with a wry smile. “Drove Da and Mother up the wall.”

            “Interesting you use a short-name for your father but not your mother,” she noted.

            “The Stormsword isn’t someone you nickname. Da does his best but Mother… She’s devoted to Talos before all things.”

            “And that’s why she worries the Council. Your father’s a consolidator. Your mother’s an expansionist.”

            “As I said, it’s a pretty long shot for her to become High Queen. Not impossible, mind you, but pretty damned improbable.”

            “No one expected a dock-born brat from the Imperial City to be the reincarnation of Indoril Nerevar either,” she said dryly. “Azura teaches us to be prepared for all eventualities, even unlikely ones.”

            “Brelyna?” he asked.

            “Yes?”

            “Please don’t be the one to kill my mother. I like you and I’d hate to have to kill you in order to avenge her.”

            Her smile was wry. “It won’t be me, Bjarni. I can promise that.”

            “Well, House Telvanni then. I’d still have to kill you and this Brandyl on principle.”

            “You could _try_. But I’ll pass on the recommendation. An enlightened, competent, cosmopolitan Jarl of Windhelm would be a miracle from the Reclamations.”

            Bjarni chuckled. “Egil’s more likely to be Jarl of Windhelm. He treats everyone with the same mercy and justice, but he’s a worshipper of Stendarr.”

            “Ah yes, the Divine of Mercy. Unless you’re not an Aedra worshipper.” Brelyna shook her head.

            “Yeah, that’s true.” Bjarni sighed. Politics interfered in anything. “So… do you know how to make a sujamma still?”

            “No. Such acts are beneath the heir of House Telvanni. Or so my mother tells me.”

            Bjarni grinned. “Want to be a disappointment to your family?”

            She laughed.


	5. Chapter 4: The Magics of the Atmorans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“It was at Saarthal that I learned the most about the wonders and terrors of ancient Atmoran magics.”_

Master Alterationist Tolfdir, _Under Saarthal: A Study of Atmoran Sorcery_

“Look at it! Still bright after all these years!”

            “I’d say that’s because of magic,” Bjarni said dryly as Korir examined the ancient stalhrim-banded steel helmet excitedly. The Jarl was grinning like a little boy given a new toy and despite his sarcasm, Bjarni was grinning too. They’d reclaimed a lost part of Skyrim history and given Winterhold some of its dignity back.

            “Your point’s made,” Korir retorted without rancour. “I’m still wary of the College, mind you.”

            “I’m not asking you to embrace the College with open arms,” Bjarni reminded him. “I’m just telling you that we have a history of magic we shouldn’t ignore.”

            “I _get_ it, Bjarni.” Korir gently set the Helm of Winterhold on the table. “I know your hearthman and recognise the cat, but who’s the Dunmer?”

            “Brelyna of Great House Telvanni, Jarl Korir,” she said with an inclination of her head. “The College is the only place where I can pursue magical studies without having to worry about the politics of the Empire or the Great Houses, for the most part.”

            “The Dunmer share our concerns about the Aldmeri Dominion,” Bjarni added.

            “Who’s the Thalmor agent and why are they still breathing?” Korir asked bluntly.

            “His name is Ancano and he’s still alive because some of our faculty have family back in Valenwood and the Summerset Isles that could be harmed if anything happened to him,” Brelyna explained. “I assure you, it’s not because most of us _like_ him.”

            Korir sighed explosively. “If he leaves the College, he’s a dead mer.”

            “I wouldn’t _dream_ of disagreeing with you, Jarl Korir,” Brelyna said piously.

            “J’zargo would,” the Khajiit said. “Only because J’zargo wishes to practice some Destruction magic on Ancano.”

            Korir grinned at the apprentice. “I could almost like you.”

            “The impression I get is that some of the faculty are refugees or political exiles from the Dominion,” Bjarni told the Jarl. “We pretty much all believe Ancano’s a spy at the very least. At best, he’s monitoring the exiles. At worst, he’s actively pillaging the College for magical knowledge that can be turned against us. And since the College pays lip service to the White-Gold Concordat…”

            “You can’t be rid of him,” Korir finished grimly. Then he sighed again. “I… appreciate what you’ve done here. Obey the laws of Winterhold and I won’t speak against your presence in my Hold. Even the cat.”

            J’zargo’s ears flattened. Bjarni wondered if the Khajiit realised how big the concession was.

            “J’zargo is grateful,” he purred. “In return for your generosity, J’zargo will send word to Ri’saad and his caravans that Khajiit will find a market here. We do much of the travelling trade in Skyrim and can bring things your Birna does not sell and will pay for what she cannot sell.”

            “I’ve dealt with Ri’saad,” Bjarni said quietly. “He’s a shrewd old bastard but not half the thief that rumour paints the Khajiit.”

            “I’d say ‘don’t steal’ but there’s nothing in Winterhold worth stealing,” Korir said with only a trace of bitterness. “I will meet with this Ri’saad. I can promise no more.”

            “J’zargo would appreciate not being called ‘cat’,” the apprentice said pointedly. “Or maybe this one will have to call you ‘Jarl Softskin’.”

            Korir barked in laughter. “Point taken. I will try not to.”

            Underneath the bitterness and brooding, maybe there wasn’t a complete arse after all.

            “We better head back to the College,” Bjarni said with a grin. “Tolfdir hasn’t lectured us for over a day and he’s probably lost track of the days.”

            “You should be more respectful,” Onmund grumbled. “He can teach you a lot.”

            “Talos with you,” Korir said, touching the Helm again. “I am in your debt, Bjarni Ulfricsson.”

            They were halfway across the bridge to the College before Brelyna snorted. “He owes all of us!”

            “It’s going to take Korir a while to get over himself,” Bjarni told her. “If you think he’s bad, wait until you meet Skald the Elder of the Pale or Dengeir of Stuhn from Falkreath. At least Korir’s young enough to learn better.”

            They were met at the courtyard gates by Tolfdir. “How’d your little excursion go?” the old mage asked.

            “Good. We found the Helm and Korir’s gonna back off a bit,” Bjarni replied.

            “Excellent.” The teacher rubbed his hands. “Are you four up to a trip to Saarthal? We’ve broken through the debris to find several magically sealed chambers. Arniel’s already down there investigating them but six of us can cover more ground than one.”

            “I’m not sure we should be disturbing the dead, Master Tolfdir,” Onmund said, looking troubled.

            “Sadly, the ancient barrows are our best hopes of reclaiming the old lost magics,” Tolfdir replied. “The draugr are animated by ancient sorceries. Their souls have gone to whatever reward was given them by Kyne and Shor, beyond care for what we do with their treasures.”

            Onmund glanced at Bjarni, who shrugged. “I don’t like it either, but he’s got a point. Da’s been trying to find the Sword of Freydis and the Jagged Crown for years and if they’re anywhere, it’ll be an old king’s tomb.”

            He sighed. “Fine. I think this is a bad idea, but I’ll do it anyway.”

            Saarthal was only an hour away on foot and inside the ancient barrows, Bjarni found himself shivering. There was old magic here and the spirits of giants who looked down on their Nord descendants with pity or contempt. Brelyna was serene, pointing out that in Morrowind, old dead things were typical, and J’zargo’s eyes were darting about for anything small, portable and valuable.

            Onmund stuck to Tolfdir as they examined some old carvings of Jhunal, the old Nord god of magic and mathematics, and Bjarni was assigned to Arniel to search for enchanted bits and pieces. The glint of tarnished silver among the dusty browns of the tomb were visible almost immediately, but it was the ancient bone amulet hanging from a seal of almost the same dark ivory that took some finding. He pulled it off and an iron grate fell to cut him off from the rest of the tomb.

            “What in the name of Jhunal have you gotten yourself into?” Tolfdir asked, appearing almost immediately.

            “I pulled this from a seal,” Bjarni said, holding the amulet through the bars.

            Tolfdir examined it. “I’m unfamiliar with this… Onmund?”

            Bjarni’s hearthman walked over and looked at the amulet himself. “Runes for sealing and sorcery. I think it’s a key of some description. Put it on and cast something at the seal.”

            Bjarni obeyed and under his Fire-Call galdur, the seal crumbled into dust and the grate lifted.

            “Interesting.” Tolfdir rubbed his chin. “Onmund, can you tell Brelyna and J’zargo what to look for?”

            Bjarni handed over the three silver rings he’d found. “Arniel might be able to make something of these too.”

            Onmund took the rings and nodded to Master Tolfdir before heading towards Arniel in his little alcove. Tolfdir flexed his fingers with a gleeful grin. “Let’s go explore some more, Bjarni.”

            Exploring got Bjarni visited by the ghost of a Psijic Monk not within two rooms of the deeper complex. “Hold,” announced the shaven-headed Altmer in maroon and ivory robes. “You have unleashed a greater danger than you realise. As you had no way of knowing, judgement has not been passed, but judgement will be passed on your future actions.”

            “My name is Bjarni, son of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm,” he replied as he realised Tolfdir was somehow frozen in mid-step.

            “We know. I am Quaranir of the Psijic Order.” The mer’s green-gold eyes were measuring but Bjarni managed to meet them. Something very ancient, very wise and very wise stared back at him. “I… cannot tell you much more than warn you at the moment. Others will seek the power you have unleashed and it cannot be turned back now. Be watchful, be wary and mind the lessons of the Gauldursons.”

            Before Bjarni could say anything more, time resumed its usual pace, and Tolfdir had to grab the table as not to fall over. “What happened?”

            “I just got visited by a Psijic Monk talking about great power, people wanting it and to mind the lessons of the Gauldursons,” Bjarni replied. “Those seals were in place for a reason, it seems.”

            “Hmm, Talsgeir the Elder posited that Saarthal was the burial place of Jyrik Gauldurson,” Tolfdir observed. “The other two – Sigdis and Mikrul – were entombed in Geirmund’s Hall in the Rift and Folgunther in Hjaalmarch respectively.”

            “You talk like I should know those names,” Bjarni said slowly.

            “The son of Ulfric Stormcloak doesn’t know the tale of the Gauldursons, kinslayers of their father Gauldur, each one hunted down in turn by Geirmund the battle-mage of King Harald himself?” Tolfdir shook his head. “I would have thought…”

            “It’s about mages and therefore of no interest to my parents,” Bjarni said. “Thankfully, I’m not them.”

            “True enough. Well, to keep it succinct, Gauldur was a master of the Clever Craft who created a powerful amulet. His sons, jealous of it and unwilling to put in the proper learning to make their own, murdered him and divided the amulet into three. Harald had Geirmund hunt them down and bind them into undeath to be denied Kyne’s breath or Sovngarde.” Tolfdir sighed. “In Old Atmoran, ‘Gauldur’ means ‘the magic one’. It’s said he created the galdur that some of us still use today.”

            “Perhaps this amulet is the power Quaranir spoke of,” Bjarni noted.

            “Perhaps. We should look around some more.”

            There were draugr galore and in the sanctum of the burial complex, Jyrik’s own draugr… and a great rune-inscribed orb that glowed with pure magicka. Tolfdir managed to weaken Jyrik and Bjarni used the king-draugr’s own staff to beat him to death. Well, to dissolution, he supposed.

            “By the Nine,” Tolfdir breathed when the battle was over. “Would you look at this orb?”

            “I don’t like it,” Bjarni said, the hairs on his body stiff as a frightened Khajiit’s tail.

            “You’re not used to such power.” Tolfdir looked over his shoulder. “Collect the other apprentices, send Arniel down here, and return to the College to warn Savos. Whatever this is, it will require the entire faculty to move.”

            Bjarni collected Jyrik’s piece of Gauldur’s amulet (he might see if he and Onmund could look into it) and the staff. Somehow he didn’t think the amulet was what Quaranir was warning him about.


	6. Chapter 5: The Place of Literature in the College

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. My College is based on Sable17’s awesome mod ‘Magical College of Winterhold’, which is a nice lightweight mod that uses game assets to make a truly amazing College.

 

_“The Ysmir Collective is the oldest literary collection in human lands. And it’s in Skyrim. And its current guardian is an Orc. Who said Skyrim wasn’t a land of miracles?”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson, _The Nord’s Guide to Practical Magic_

“I demand to know what exactly was found at Saarthal!”

            Bjarni shoved Ancano so hard that the mer landed on his arse. “Go fuck yourself, blackcoat. I’m not telling you shit.”

            “Master Wizard, I demand that howling barbarian be arrested!” Ancano yelled at Mirabelle.

            “Bjarni, for assaulting a guest of the College, you owe us forty septims,” the Master Wizard told him.

            He tossed her a bag of septims. “Keep the change. I’ll probably be hitting him until he goes home.”

            She gave an aggravated sigh and he headed for the door to the Arch-Mage’s quarters.

            If there was ever a place that epitomised sorcery, it was the tower room belonging to Savos Aren. Various plants and fungi grew around a slightly glowing tree draped in hanging moss while the circular room was filled with everything a sorcerer and/or wonder-smith could ever want to ply their trade. Savos Aren, a lean Dunmer with silvered hair and the blue-fringed robes of his station, was studying a crystal at his desk. “Whatever it is, take it to Mirabelle,” he ordered without looking up. “I’m busy here.”

            “Tolfdir ordered me to come straight to you,” Bjarni said respectfully. “It’s about something we found in Saarthal.”

            “And here I thought it was because you put Ancano on his arse,” the Dunmer said dryly, glancing up from the crystal.

            “Can’t you just dump him in the Sea of Ghosts or something?” Bjarni asked. “Everyone keeps on telling me they can’t kill him. I get that some faculty have relatives in the Dominion, but…”

            “When Elenwen sent him here, she promised that any harm done to Ancano would result in retaliation against the College faculty and their families everywhere,” Savos replied with a sigh. “Even if he so much as slipped on a patch of ice and broke his sorry neck by accident.”

            “I’d call her a hag, but that might be an insult to Hagravens,” Bjarni said sourly.

            “Yes. I’ve had some mutually educational encounters with the Hagravens and they’re pleasanter creatures than Elenwen,” the Arch-Mage agreed wryly. “Now, what was found in Saarthal? You reek of powerful magic.”

            Bjarni explained what happened and who spoke to him. Savos nodded and asked a few clarifying questions. By the time they were done, he felt like he’d been put through the Wheel.

            “Sealed in with the worst of the Gauldurson brothers… I recall a passage in _Night of Tears_ about something being the catalyst for the Falmer’s massacre of the Atmoran settlers. Ask Urag to find the book and the treatise on Artaeum… Hmm, maybe _The Last King of the Ayleids._ I don’t think this is an object of Dawn-magic origin, but it won’t hurt to eliminate the possibility.”

            “I think I understand about half those words,” Bjarni admitted with a grin. “I can read, but I prefer to learn by doing.”

            “Yes, Tolfdir tells me you respond best to personal mentoring. Mirabelle thinks you’re a bit too inclined to the physical to be an adept mage but since you’re more interested in using magic to enhance your capabilities as a leader, I don’t believe it to be that big a deal.” Savos smiled a little and picked up a slender staff of birch with a cloudy white ball of quartz at one end. “This casts Magelight and will assist you in any further subterranean explorations.”

            “Thanks,” Bjarni said, accepting the staff.

            “You’re welcome. I must say, I’m not displeased to see the son of a Jarl attend the College. We’re too isolated from Skyrim and the rest of Tamriel.” Savos inclined his head. “Go find those books. And be respectful to Urag.”

            Urag gro-Shub was a broken-tusked Orc with snowy hair and a mean scowl. “Savos _would_ want those books before I could replace them,” he growled. “That little shit Orthorn stole an armful of books, including those three, before he ran off to join the necromancer coven at Fellglow Keep.”

            “Who’s Orthorn and where’s Fellglow Keep?” Bjarni asked. “Or would I do better to go to the bookshops in Solitude to find new copies?”

            “From what I gather, being anywhere near the Thalmor Embassy’s a bad idea for you, Ulfric’s boy,” Urag said. “Normally, I’d bitch at Enthir or Nirya to get off their arses and deal with the coven. But I think you and your three friends might do. I can pay you in textbooks, one for each major School.”

            “You didn’t tell me where Fellglow Keep was,” Bjarni reminded him.

            “It’s on the border of Whiterun and the Pale, near the pass with that shrine to Talos,” Urag replied.

            Bjarni gulped. Going after bandits at a shipwreck was one thing but taking on a coven of necromancers in a fort was another. But he nodded and quickly left the Arcaneum to find the others.

            Onmund, Brelyna and J’zargo hadn’t returned from Saarthal yet, so Bjarni sighed and went in search of something to eat. He found Drevis Neloren in the storeroom cutting up cheese and bread instead. “Ah, Bjarni,” greeted the Illusion Master with a smile. “A little birdy tells me you’re interested in Illusion spells.”

            “To a certain point, yes,” he admitted. “I’m interested in spells that will let me control armies on the battlefield.”

            “You need to start with single-person spells before getting to entire armies,” Drevis said dryly. “I have some time now. I hear Urag’s given you a shit of a job. I happen to know some of the people in that coven. Illusion spells might be the difference between life and an eternity in a soul gem.”

            Bjarni shuddered. “I have some coin to pay for spells and a bit of teaching. If you take goods, I can afford a bit more.”

            “Show me what you’ve got and we’ll talk about it,” Drevis replied.

            The Dunmer haggled as sharply as any Grey Quarter vendor but in return for a handful of smallish filled soul gems, an enchanted silver ring and running around using gloves on certain points in the College, he agreed to teach Bjarni the basics of Illusion.

“Never underestimate the ability to influence others. Whether they're friends or foes, they're almost all susceptible to Illusion spells. They can turn the tide of a battle in a moment's notice,” he lectured. “For the beginning lesson, I will teach you Courage, Fury and Calm. I trust Tolfdir’s already imparted Clairvoyance to you?”

“Yes, sir,” Bjarni confirmed.

“Excellent.” Drevis leaned over the table and using his finger, he began to draw outlines of light that left a red-green afterimage in Bjarni’s eyes. It was Dunmer script, a more archaic and formal version than he was used to, but the Illusion teacher was happy to explain the concepts until Bjarni understood them. Once he understood the basic subtleties of Illusion, Drevis had him casting Fury, Calm and Courage at a wheel of cheese of all things until he learned to maximise the spells’ effects for a minimum of magicka. By the end of the lesson, he was dripping in sweat despite the chill of the storeroom, as exhausted as the times Ralof had him chopping firewood to build up muscles in his arms and callus on his hands.

Drevis squeezed his shoulder. “You did well, Bjarni. Illusion magic doesn’t come easily to most Nords because you’re a direct, forthright people.”

“Thanks,” he wheezed. The Dunmer smiled.

“Go get some rest. You can tell the other apprentices about your little errand tomorrow.”

…

“I don’t fucking care about Orthorn or whatever you’re doing here,” Bjarni told the gate guard at Fellglow Keep after casting Calm on her. “I’m just here for three books in particular: _Night of Tears, On Artaeum_ and _Last King of the Ayleids._ ”

            He’d gone ahead on his own, the other three lurking just out of eyesight, to try and negotiate. This coven was fifteen, twenty strong, and most of them were better mages than the apprentices.

            “That’s it?” she asked suspiciously.

            “That’s it,” he promised.

            “What about your friends in the bushes?”

            “A precaution, given your people’s reputation at the College. You don’t throw spells at us, we won’t throw spells at you.”

            “That’s… reasonable,” the guard conceded.

            Bjarni gestured his friends from concealment. “Please take me to your leader.”

            Their leader was a middle-aged Altmer woman in black robes. “Savos Aren swore he’d never negotiate with us,” she said suspiciously.

            “Between you and me, ma’am, Savos Aren suffers from a bad case of head-up-arse at times,” Bjarni told her with a grin. “We just want the bloody books because they’re important for a group assignment. Give them to us and we’ll go in peace. None of us will attack or harm you.”

            The Caller tapped her chin. Then she nodded. “Very well. Killing you or Brelyna wouldn’t be worth the trouble and we trade with the Khajiit so J’zargo’s out. If you were willing to trade the slack-jawed mouth-breather, I could throw in some Conjuration training.”

            “Onmund is my hearthman,” Bjarni told her. “I’m not making judgement calls on your sorcerous preferences, but it’s frowned upon for a Nord lord to sell his people.”

            “Your loss,” the Caller said with a shrug. “Soli, please fetch the books and get these children out of my keep.”

            Bjarni led his friends southwest towards Whiterun, sunset staining the sky with amber and lavender, as Onmund fumed. “They’re necromancers!” he hissed at Bjarni. “They’ll probably soul trap Orthorn.”

            “Probably,” Bjarni agreed. “But an oath is an oath. We promised that none of us would hurt them.”

            “Shouldn’t we be returning to Winterhold?” Brelyna asked, looking over her shoulder.

            “No. I have business in Whiterun first.”

            They just beat the gates being closed for the night. Bjarni led them through the bright, prosperous town towards the Bannered Mare, where most of Whiterun’s folk drank of an evening, including Balgruuf. A quick peek inside the door revealed a lack of Jarl or Companions, so he turned for the Wind District.

            Jorrvaskr’s doors were open, golden light and noise spilling out into the public square. Bjarni cocked his ear and then nodded. “Good. They’re rowdy but they’re not drunk.”

            Brelyna smiled. She must have caught on to his plan. “Clever. Very clever, Bjarni.”

            “We Nords always try to leave a loophole in our oaths,” he said smugly as he climbed the stairs towards the meadhall.

            There were several Nords seated at tables around a blazing firepit, most wearing the black-enamelled steel plate of a full Companion but for Aela the Huntress, who wore her heirloom set of leather and steel that dated back to the time of her ancestress Hroti Blackblade. An old woman in tan homespun wool was refilling the tankard of a rangy, platinum-blond man in shining indigo fabric that could only be silk. So, the Jarl of Whiterun was drinking with the Circle tonight.

            “Hail to the hall!” Bjarni called out in the time-old fashion.

            “Hail to the welcome guest,” replied a hefty, grey-haired man. “What brings you to Jorrvaskr?”

            “Ill tidings, Harbinger,” Bjarni said as he stepped closer to the table. “Tidings of necromancers foul at Fellglow Keep.”

            “You and your mage-friends look competent enough,” Balgruuf drawled, deliberately breaking the traditional formula.

            “We are,” Bjarni replied. “But we were sent to retrieve irreplaceable books those bastards stole. I opted to make an oath of no harm and come to Whiterun to inform you and the Companions of the problem, Jarl Balgruuf, so that these books weren’t damaged beyond repair.”

            “You want us to clean up the College’s mess?” the Harbinger asked with a raised eyebrow.

            “Only the senior two or three came from the College. This one would say the rest are renegades from the College of Whispers in Cyrodiil,” J’zargo said calmly. “J’zargo has studied in Cyrodiil. He knows Synod and Whisper mages when he sees them.”

            “And we’re apprentices,” Bjarni added. “Bandits, the odd necromancer, we can handle. A coven of between a dozen and a score necromancers? I’d rather leave that to the professionals. I saw some good loot there and I know winter’s the lean time for the Companions.”

            Kodlak exchanged looks with a balding Nord who had to be his second Skjor. The Hero-Twins Farkas and Vilkas leaned forward, their tankards of mead forgotten. Aela was tapping her bottom lip thoughtfully. A stocky Redguard in charcoal armour that Bjarni didn’t notice at first, concealed by the flickering shadows cast by the firelight as he was, cleared his throat.

            “There’s been a nasty rash of necromancers heading north because of the Knights of the Circle’s efforts to eliminate them in Cyrodiil,” he said in a smooth, oily tenor. “Was their leader an older Redguard woman?”

            “No, a middle-aged Altmer womer,” Bjarni replied. Onmund was too busy gawking at the banners and displayed weapons in the mead-hall to say much.

            “Damn. Lu’ah’s my primary mission.” The Redguard sighed. “Kodlak, you may say nay or yea as you wish, but I have to look into this.”

            “I know, Irkand,” Kodlak rumbled. “You won’t go alone, but someone has to foot the initial bill. It’s all very well to speak of loot but what a mage finds valuable may be useless to us.”

            Bjarni sighed, farewelled the rest of the money his father gave him, and tossed the pouch onto the table. “I think there’s a thousand septims or so in there.”

            “You’re a well-heeled College apprentice,” Balgruuf drawled as Kodlak swept the pouch into his meaty hands. “You look vaguely familiar.”

            “I’m Bjarni Ulfricsson,” he admitted. “You haven’t heard about Dengeir disowning me for being a mage?”

            “I didn’t think Ulfric had the brains to send you to the College,” Balgruuf observed. “Was it your mother’s idea?”  
            “My father’s. He doesn’t need the Stormsword to come up with ideas, you know,” Bjarni retorted.

            “Given the Stormsword’s ideas begin with ‘attack’ and end with ‘for the glory of Talos’, that’s probably a good thing,” Irkand said sardonically. “Did she ever mention the time she spent with the Blades?”

            “I didn’t even know she knew any Blades, sir,” Bjarni said. “My mother happens to be one of the greatest strategists in Skyrim.”

            “As a mother, she makes a great strategist, I’d imagine.” There was an old bitterness in Irkand’s tone.

            “Irkand…” Kodlak said warningly. “Bjarni’s not to blame for his mother’s deeds.”

            “You’re right.” Irkand bowed his head to Bjarni apologetically. “There’s bad blood between my family and the Kreathling Jarls. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

            Kodlak interjected before Bjarni could ask any questions. “Your payment is sufficient, Bjarni, and I understand why you made the oath… even if it smacks of facile semantics. Warn the Arch-Mage that if the eye opens, we are all doomed.”

            “Yes, Harbinger.” Bjarni bowed his head respectfully. “I think Savos Aren should have sent senior members of the faculty. But at the moment, we’re all he has to spare.”

            “If he’s not careful, you may be all that’s left of the College,” the Harbinger said cryptically. “Now go and leave Fellglow Keep to us.”

            Bjarni and the others slunk out like chastened dogs. What had seemed like a clever idea at the time now appeared to be dishonourable, maybe even cowardly. He had no reason to feel that way… but he did under Kodlak’s rain-grey gaze.

            More interestingly, who was Irkand and why did his family hate the Kreathling Jarls? Bjarni knew better than to ask his mother. Maybe his father or Galmar or even Ralof knew something.

            He’d have to stop by Windhelm on the way back to find out.


	7. Chapter 6: The Role of Ancestors in Nordic Culture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for fantastic racism and mentions of child abuse.

 

_“Skyrim is a popular destination for necromancers because of the isolation, the cold and entire tombs filled with embalmed dead. It’s one thing to raise a dead foe in the heat of battle but quite another to deliberately desecrate the tombs of honoured ancestors because you’re too lazy to do some physical labour.”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson, _The Nord’s Guide to Practical Magic_

The apprentices were following the line of the White River just past Valtheim Towers and about to cross the bridge when a lanky blond man in poorly tanned leathers blundered into Bjarni out of nowhere. “Vals Veran… Hillgrund’s Tomb… My ancestors!” he panted.

            J’zargo’s ears pricked up. “Vals is one of the faculty who left the College after Savos tightened the rules about necromancy,” the Khajiit remarked.

            The blond nodded, looking ready to cry. “He said at the pub he’d raise my ancestors and make them his slaves for eternity like they did in Morrowind. Me and Aunt Agna went to leave offerings at the tomb today and he…”

            “We do _not_ make our ancestors slaves!” Brelyna said angrily. “Some of our dying elders might volunteer to stay behind as guardians of the home and hearth or be bound into protections against unclean things, but we don’t bind them against their will and we most certainly don’t make them slaves!”

            So much for getting to Windhelm today. “I’m Bjarni Ulfricsson and these are my hearthman Onmund Broken-Tusk, Brelyna of Great House Telvanni, and J’zargo of, ah…”

            “J’zargo of Ri’saad’s Caravan,” the Khajiit finished smoothly.

            “What he said,” Bjarni finished, flashing J’zargo a grateful smile. “We’ve been studying at the College of Winterhold. Now where’s your aunt and how can we find this Vals?”

            _“In a crisis, speak calmly but firmly,”_ Galmar used to tell him. _“It pushes past the fear and makes you think.”_

The Calm spell Bjarni cast as he helped the blond to his feet might have helped too.

            “My aunt’s somewhere in the tomb. I’m… scared of the draugr. My father locked me in there overnight once…” The poor bastard looked ready to cry again.

            “Let’s find her and deal with this Vals Veran,” Bjarni told him gently. “Now what’s your name, kinsman?”

            “Golldir. Me and my aunt work at the Mixwater Mill.”

            “Ah! The best source of lumber in Eastmarch.” Bjarni smiled reassuringly. “Let’s go.”

            Golldir led them into the tomb and Brelyna scowled darkly at the signs of disarray. “It’s one thing to investigate old ruins like Saarthal or a tomb which isn’t tended anymore, but quite another to plunder and despoil the remains of ancestors with living family!”

            “Dunmer venerate their ancestors as much as we do,” Bjarni explained to Golldir. “Vals Veran’s committing blasphemy against his own gods and ours.”

            Golldir swallowed. “I-I only knew Vals Veran. I thought all Dunmer were like him.”

            “Dunmer are just people like us.” Bjarni pushed open a door and then shut it again when he realised there were offerings behind it. “Well, aside from the whole worshipping Daedra thing.”

            “The Three are worshipped by plenty of non-Dunmer,” Brelyna said over her shoulder. “Azura teaches us to hope for the future, Mephala teaches us to plan for the future when hope fails, and Boethiah teaches us to act when the future is threatened by outside forces.”

            “It’s more complicated than that,” Bjarni pointed out.

            “Well, yeah, but I don’t think Golldir cares.”

            “I’m more worried about my aunt and my ancestors,” the churl admitted.

            “See?”

            They found Agna dead before two double doors. Golldir howled with rage and slammed his fists on the doors, producing sparks on the wards laid on the wood. Bjarni sighed inwardly and cast Calm once more.

            “Every tomb has a secret way,” he told Golldir. “Lead us through it and Vals will die screaming.”

            Rage had pushed aside Golldir’s fear and he led the way to where some of the old sacred carvings clustered around a door. “Aunt Agna said ‘the bear will show the way’,” he said.

            Bjarni pulled on the chain hidden just below the bear-carving and the door moved aside to show a winding tunnel. He took point, being armoured in steel chainmail as he was, and Onmund took the rear.

            Vals Veran had set himself up in the tomb’s sanctum, where the clan patriarch and other honoured ancestors were laid to rest, and had several draugr – one of them with a stalhrim axe! – patrolling the room. Bjarni moved to the side to let J’zargo through. “Give him our greetings,” he ordered the Khajiit grimly.

            So began a very ugly little fight. J’zargo hammered Vals Veran with Destruction spells, proving that he might just one day be Faralda’s equal in the School, while Onmund and Brelyna focused on the lesser undead with Golldir flailing away with his axe at a couple skeletons. Bjarni went up against Hillgrund himself, being the only one armoured for it, and found himself matching the king-draugr’s simple blows.

            In combat like this, it was a matter of battering down the draugr before it outlasted you. Bjarni was panting and sweating before long, facing an untiring opponent who fought mindlessly, endlessly, pitilessly.

            Then Hillgrund Shouted and tore Bjarni’s axe from his hand. Ulfric knew that Shout too.

            _FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK-_ Bjarni called fire and blasted Hillgrund in the face. The draugr laughed cruelly and raised its stalhrim axe. The icy weapon’s edge glowed evilly in the eldritch light of a mage battle. Then it descended, the cold cruel bite of stalhrim marking his flesh-

            The light in Hillgrund’s eyes died as the draugr collapsed, cut into pieces by a weeping Golldir.

            Bjarni now understood what they meant by ‘winter’s burn’. His shoulder ached and burned from the stalhrim axe’s bite but he managed to stand with Golldir’s help. Vals Veran was now fighting off Brelyna and Onmund in addition to J’zargo. Judging by the wounds on the renegade Dunmer’s body, he wouldn’t last much longer.

            By the time they’d gotten to the steps leading up to Hillgrund’s sarcophagus, Vals Veran was dead. Golldir eased Bjarni down to sit on a step. “Thank you, thank you!”

            “Just find my axe,” Bjarni told him hoarsely. “It’s forged by Oengus War-Anvil and if I lose it, Da will kill me.”

            Despite their searching, no one could find the axe. Bjarni indulged himself in a fit of swearing that had Onmund blushing, Brelyna smirking and J’zargo correcting his Khajiit. Golldir took a deep breath and released it explosively. “Take Hillgrund’s axe,” he said.

            “It’s stalhrim! You literally could buy a small house in Windhelm for it!” Bjarni blurted.

            “I don’t want a small house in Windhelm,” Golldir said quietly. “You helped lay my ancestors to rest and avenged my aunt, Bjarni. Take the axe. Your friends can each take something of their choice from the offerings too.”

            The lumberjack folded Bjarni’s fingers around the haft of the stalhrim axe and he acquiesced with a sigh. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

            It appeared Golldir’s ancestors included a rune-binder as Onmund found a set of aged ivory amulets that had him smiling with glee. J’zargo settled for a silver torc enchanted with frost and fire resistance while Brelyna chose a shock-enchanted elven shortsword. “Always have a backup weapon,” she said with a wry smile.

            Even with a couple healing potions, Bjarni’s shoulder was too injured for anyone but a professional to heal, and the nearest priests were in Windhelm. Golldir accompanied them to the city, only stopping at Mixwater Mill to tell Gilfre what happened. Bjarni was glad for the lumberjack’s support because he wouldn’t have made it on his own.

            There was some unpleasantness at the gates concerning J’zargo being allowed to enter. Bjarni told the gate guard to either let the Khajiit inside or explain to Ulfric Stormcloak why his son bled to death on the bridge. The situation was quickly resolved and J’zargo followed them to the Temple.

            Jora was cleaning out the wound with blessed mead when Ulfric slammed the doors of the Temple open. “What the hell happened?” the Jarl of Windhelm yelled. “You’re supposed to be at the College, not coming home with ice burns!”

            “A necromancer-raised draugr did this,” Bjarni said through gritted teeth. “Bastard thing was wielding a stalhrim axe. Golldir let me keep it though.”

            “Your son is an apprentice at the College, Jarl Ulfric,” Brelyna said with a courtier’s soothing tone. “That means he, like all of us, gets sent on errands. We were coming back from one when we helped a Nord save his ancestors from being enslaved by a blasphemous Dunmer necromancer. Bjarni fought the king-draugr itself.”

            “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak, greyskin,” Ulfric said bluntly.

            “Da,” Bjarni said. “That’s one of the heirs to House Telvanni. You can’t demand respect from the Dunmer without giving their nobles some.”

            Ulfric was deeply prejudiced against all mer. Bjarni knew a little of why he was like that, even though the Dunmer had nothing to do with it. But the Jarl was also a politician. He swallowed and nodded. “I apologise. But a Nord explains himself and doesn’t rely on a Dunmer to do his talking.”

            “Brelyna pretty much summed it up,” Bjarni told his father. “This Vals Veran was a blasphemer by both Nord and Dunmer standards. J’zargo took him on while we focused on the draugr. I lost my axe because Hillgrund knew the Disarm Shout. I was holding my own until then. Golldir put the bastard down and said I could keep the stalhrim axe because we couldn’t find mine.”

            “Hillgrund doesn’t need it anymore,” Golldir said quietly, ducking his head repeatedly. “Bjarni and his friends avenged my ancestors, Jarl. They all acted like true Nords in the battle.”

            Ulfric’s mouth tightened. “Your friends can stay at the Candlehearth Hall, even the cat. We need to talk.”

            “Go,” Bjarni told them. “I’ll be fine.”

            When they left the Temple, Ulfric sat heavily on the pew nearest to the pallet where Bjarni lay. “Kai’s given me quite the report of your actions at Winterhold,” he said without preamble.

            “I strive to make you proud,” Bjarni said, hissing as Jora dug into the wound. Would it kill them to have a decent Restorationist around here?

            “No, you don’t,” Ulfric replied bluntly. “You rush headlong without regard for proper behaviour or tradition.”

            “I’m trying to resurrect our old magical traditions,” Bjarni countered. “How much have we lost?”

            “Sometimes things are lost for good reason.” Ulfric sighed heavily and shook his head. “Korir is paying more attention to his Hold now. I suppose that’s something.”

            “We found the Helm of Winterhold,” Bjarni said proudly. “It’s given him a boost.”

            “Oh? Think you could find the Jagged Crown or the Sword of Freydis?”

            “I’d need to work on my Clairvoyance for that.”

            Ulfric shifted. “Why is the Thalmor agent still alive?”

            “Because we’re trying to find a way to remove him that won’t have the faculty and their families targeted by the Thalmor.” Bjarni hissed again. Jora didn’t have the gentlest hands in Windhelm.

            “Sometimes sacrifices must be made.”

            “There’s a difference between sending soldiers to die and deliberately leaving civilians open to being tortured and murdered,” Bjarni said grimly. “If Ancano just dies, people from Morrowind to High Rock are in danger, including several Nords.”

            “As I said, sacrifices must be made.” Ulfric’s bottle-green eyes were hard.

            “Well, those aren’t the kind of sacrifices I’m willing to make. If we don’t treat other races with honour, how can we demand honour from them?” Bjarni glanced up at the enigmatic bearded countenance of Talos. “The Talos _I_ worship found ways to include and make use of other races’ talents. If Skyrim’s gonna lead the fight against the Thalmor like you keep on saying, we need to start treating non-Nords decently or we’ll be standing alone when the time comes.”

            Ulfric opened his mouth to speak – probably to refute Bjarni’s argument with some crap about how you can’t trust a non-Nord – and Bjarni decided to change the subject. “Da,” he said. “Who’s Irkand and why does his family have issues with Mother’s clan?”

            The Jarl’s eyes glittered. “How did you meet Irkand?”

            “He was at Jorrvaskr. We had to get some books from a coven of necromancers and since I promised I wouldn’t hurt them, I hired the Companions to go after them once we got the books. Irkand was there. I think he’s a Knight of Arkay or something.” Bjarni took a deep breath to stop himself from babbling. “He doesn’t seem to like Mother very much.”

            “The feeling’s mutual,” Ulfric said flatly. “Irkand is an assassin from a clan of liars and frauds who defamed and destroyed the Blades. His brother murdered your grand-uncle Balgeir during a parley. Don’t ever mention them around your mother. She’s still angry about it after all these years.”

            “That’s why I’m asking you,” Bjarni said.

            “Don’t.” Ulfric’s word was final. “This isn’t your father speaking, it’s the Jarl of Windhelm.”

            Bjarni nodded, lips pursed.

            “You question too much, Bjarni. You aren’t a commander. Yours is to listen and obey until you are worthy to lead. You’ve already lost Falkreath. Don’t throw away everything else.” Ulfric rose to his feet. “The next time I hear from Kai, I want to hear the Thalmor’s dead. Do you understand me?”

            “Yes, Father.”

            Ulfric nodded and left the Temple.

            Jora, privy to all this, finished bandaging Bjarni’s shoulder. “You’re right about Talos,” the priestess said. “He did bring people together. But that was the Talos who’d conquered Tamriel and could think about peace. The aspect your parents are calling on is the warlord. One step at a time, Bjarni.”

            He nodded and kept silent. He had much to think about on the way back to Winterhold.


	8. Interlude: Between the Fire and the Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“The strongest blades are forged in the fire and quenched in the frost.”_

Oengus War-Anvil to his apprentice Hermir Strong-Heart

The Grey Quarter, as the Nords derisively nicknamed the district given over to the Dunmer, was a warren of narrow twisty streets, rooms cut deep into the defensive walls, and age-worn basalt blocks hung with tattered ochre-hued banners. It was a slum that wouldn’t be out of place in Blacklight if it wasn’t for the alien blocky architecture of Windhelm. Brelyna beheld the folk the Great Houses had failed and mourned for them.

            Even in the heart of Talos worship, there was a small shrine to the Reclamations with the appropriate icons for each of the Three. It was unsurprising that Azura’s was the largest as She was the safest to worship in these Aedra-loving lands but those dedicated to Mephala and Boethiah were the more worn by the hands of worshippers seeking a small blessing against the icy indifference of Nord and Skyrim alike. A bent-back crone with Ashlander scars tended the shrine, sweeping the snow out and removing the rotted offerings left at the base of the icons. Brelyna bowed respectfully to her and then to each of the icons, touching her eyes, lips and heart. Azura to see, Mephala to speak, Boethiah to act. She placed an ash yam before each icon with the others. So far from home, she could use a blessing or two.

            Scrying by fire was one of the first and simplest spells any self-respecting Telvanni scion learned. All was needed was a fire and a copper bowl, though it helped to have hair or blood from the target. Brelyna closed her eyes and raised her hands, red-ochre light springing up from the sigils carved into the stone. Wards cut into every temple, ready for any competent mage to trigger.

            The sound of the streets faded away. Brelyna knelt before the Dwemer bowl in the middle of the shrine, filling it with trama root and scathecraw, and cast Flames with a flick of her hand. A scent like hot stone and ash filled the air as she wove the fire into sigils of sight and seeking, then let her magicka sink into them. The fire’s heart blazed blue. “Find me Brandyl,” she said simply.

            The blue fire resolved into the image of a lean, weathered Dunmer wearing a Nord-style tunic as he haggled with an Argonian wearing similar clothing. Around them was dilapidated wood and stone, the people passing through the image shorter and rounder than the Nords she knew, most them a drab brown and wearing mantles woven in geometric or checkered patterns. Brandyl handed over a small pouch of coin and received a copper bracelet of Saxhleel design before the Argonian went somewhere else. In short order, a Dunmer female in a bloodstained apron bought the copper bracelet off him with a handful of hard sausages.

            “Where is he?” Brelyna asked of the fire.

            _South,_ it whispered.

            She closed her hands and ended the spell by killing the fire. It faded into cold ash and she lowered the wards on the shrine. J’zargo and Onmund were probably getting worried about her.

            The Candlehearth Hall was larger than most Nord inns, made of the same blocky basalt as most of Windhelm. The innkeeper was a blowsy middle-aged woman who tried to overcharge them for the rooms until Onmund said firmly that he knew the winter going rate and if the coin of a Nord and his friends wasn’t good enough, he’d go see what was in the Grey Quarter. She wilted and only charged a few septims extra on account of ‘the cat might shed fur’. Judging by J’zargo’s expression, she was going to find her lockbox picked and the night’s proceeds stolen.

            On her return, Bjarni was with Onmund and J’zargo in the room above the entrance. Among the fair-haired Eastmarchers with their florid-pink complexions, he stood out due to his brown-black hair. Most of the Nords ran from hefty to fat, most of the former wearing bearskins and the latter wearing blue. There was a Dunmer singing in the corner and an Imperial scribbling something in a book. But most of the crowd were Nords.

            “How’s your shoulder?” she asked as she sat down across from him.

            “It’ll heal,” he said shortly. “Have you done everything you need to in Windhelm?”

            “I… Yes.” She looked into his strange eyes – blue-green with little brown specks like a rock warbler’s egg – and saw an ice-cold anger that frightened her. “We aren’t staying here?”

            “I’d rather not. I can get your money back from Elda.”

            Brelyna glanced at Onmund and J’zargo. Golldir was across the room, flirting with a pretty blonde waitress. Her fellow apprentices nodded in agreement. Whatever happened, it had to have been bad.

            Elda tried to keep half their money until Bjarni said, “Give my friends fair refund or I’ll tell the Steward about you watering the mead.” There was something implacable in his tone and meekly, the innkeeper handed over most of the coin. Brelyna knew that if a guest cancelled their room at an inn, the owner could keep about ten percent, so she didn’t say anything.

            They were out on the docks and heading towards a particular boat. “Onmund’s father and brother,” Bjarni explained curtly. “He’ll take us to Winterhold on the way back to Dawnstar.”

            “Look at you, all done up like a mage,” the boatman, who reeked of fish and horker fat, said to Onmund. “You know anything about bad dreams?”

            “Uh, don’t listen to Kari’s singing before you go to bed?” Onmund asked.

            “I wish it was that simple.” The boatman chivvied them all onto the boat. “Everyone’s been having nightmares in Dawnstar. Even Karl and he has the imagination of a brick.”

            “Have you checked the mead?” Onmund asked, sitting down at the prow. “Oh! I got these as payment for helping someone. They’re warding and hunting amulets, but more powerful than what I can make at the moment.”

            His father poled them out of the harbour as the brother unfurled the red-striped sail. “Payment?”

            “We helped someone protect his ancestors from being raised by a necromancer,” Bjarni replied. “Golldir allowed us to take one thing from the offerings as a reward.”

            The boatman bit his lip as Onmund laid out the ivory amulets from Hillgrund’s tomb. “Those are whalebone, boy. You know what they’re worth?”

            “Enough to keep you safe on the water for many years to come,” Onmund told his sire. “I can copy the enchantments on horker ivory and trade them to the sailors in Dawnstar.”

            “I’m not happy about you being in the College, but at least you haven’t forgotten us,” was the boatman’s reply.

            “About these bad dreams,” Bjarni said after a while. “Everyone is having them?”

            “If they spend more than a night or two in port, aye,” the boatman confirmed. “Same dreams too.”

            “That’s definitely magical in origin,” Onmund said with pursed lips. “Give me two or three days and I’ll see if we can check them out.”

            “Talk to Erandur,” the brother advised. “He’s the Priest of Mara trying to get someone to accompany him to the Tower of the Dawn.”

            Onmund shuddered. “That place gives me the creeps.”

            “Well, Erandur’s saying that it’s the source of the nightmares, but he won’t say any more unless someone agrees to join him,” the brother said.

            “We’ll investigate it,” Bjarni promised. “It could be overspill from the College or something worse. We just need a couple days to consult with the senior faculty.”

            “I’d appreciate it,” the boatman said.

            They were set ashore at the Winterhold docks and Brelyna waited until the boat was gone before turning to Bjarni. “Why did you want to leave Windhelm so quickly?”

            “My father gave me a good dressing down after you left,” he replied sourly. “Apparently I question too much, don’t obey orders enough, and won’t sacrifice the lives of several innocents to kill one Thalmor. Oh, and don’t ask questions about that Irkand we met in Whiterun. His brother killed my great-uncle and Mother doesn’t like to be reminded of him.”

            “J’zargo has words to describe Ulfric Stormcloak but they do not translate politely for Nord ears,” the Khajiit said dryly. “But if it will help Bjarni…”

            As expected, Bjarni laughed. A little sourly, but he laughed all the same. “I’ve probably heard it all before. How d’ you reckon I learned to swear in Khajiit?”

            “Poorly. J’zargo will have to teach you properly so that you do not embarrass him in the caravans.” The Khajiit smoothed down his head-fur with a clawed hand. “Did you find what you needed, Brelyna?”

            “I did.” She sighed. “You’re not the only one with problematic relatives, Bjarni. Brandyl’s alive and somewhere to the south of Windhelm. I got a sense of bad surroundings and people wearing blanket-mantles of some kind.”

            “The Rift,” the young Nord replied immediately. “What was he doing?”

            “Trading, I think. He bought jewellery from an Argonian in the traditional Saxhleel style and sold it to a female Dunmer butcher.”

            “Brand-Shei!” J’zargo exclaimed. “J’zargo sold some things to him. There is an Argonian jeweller and a Dunmer butcher in Riften.”

            Bjarni was nodding in agreement. “Riften’s definitely not the best of places. I’ve heard of Brand-Shei. He was raised by a childless Argonian couple on the Windhelm docks before going south to make a living in the Rift. The story was so unusual it stuck in my mind.”

            Brelyna sighed. House Telvanni would have a collective conniption if they found out that Lymdrenn’s precious missing heir was a common trader raised by Argonians. “I want to go south and speak to him. He deserves to know his history.”

            “Yes,” Bjarni agreed with an odd note in his voice. “Family history is very important.”

            “Bjarni, if Irkand’s brother killed your great-uncle, that explains why your parents don’t like to talk about them,” Onmund said gently. “Does it matter why?”

            Bjarni spread his hands out helplessly. “There is this… hole. I don’t know how to describe it. Every time Grandfather Dengeir pays a visit, there’s shades to his conversation with Father I don’t understand. Just before I came to the College, Dengeir wanted me disowned entirely, and Father replied, ‘It’s not like we can just dump him at a farm and forget about him’. Mother and Grandfather looked like he’d punched them in the gut. And then Irkand made the comment about Mother being a better strategist than a mother. There’s this _hole_ in our history. Why would Irkand’s brother kill my great-uncle? Mother spent time with the Blades and I’ve never heard about it. You’d think she’d boast or something. Father called Irkand ‘an assassin from a clan of liars and frauds who destroyed the Blades’. This… hole… has something to do with the Blades and the Great War. I know it.”

            Onmund shrugged helplessly. “I wasn’t even born then. I don’t know why Jarls and Blades would hate each other. You’d think they’d be on the same side, worshipping Talos and all.”

            Brelyna remained silent for a while as they climbed towards Winterhold, Bjarni casting Magelight ahead of them so they didn’t trip over anything in the darkness. “This hole, as you call it, sounds a lot like Brandyl,” she finally said. “For years the elders wouldn’t discuss him. I learned about him in the family history books.”

            “J’zargo knows there was some trouble involving the Blades around the end of the Great War,” the Khajiit offered. “Most of them were killed by the Thalmor but the Grand Master was crucified by the Legion. You can still see his bones on the cross outside Cloud Ruler Temple.”

            “How do you know that?” Onmund asked with a shudder.

            “J’zargo was looking for small magical things the Thalmor might have missed. The Akaviri had many magical secrets and J’zargo would like to know them.” The Khajiit sighed. “All this one found were bones and an Akaviri dagger with a turquoise pommel.”

            Bjarni sighed heavily. “I’m sorry for burdening you with my family’s problems.”

            “Why? Your father’s a prick but you’re not.” Brelyna gave the Nord a sidelong glance. “I think you’re going to make for a good Jarl or leader in your own right one day. You’re already a better person than your parents.”

            “Not hard,” J’zargo muttered, only to be punched in the shoulder by Onmund.

            “I appreciate it, Brelyna. I think you’ll make for a great leader among the Telvanni yourself.” Bjarni sighed again. “I’d apologise for my father’s words to you but… well, I can’t because he isn’t sorry.”

            “I’m not going to hold you responsible,” she promised.

            _But I can’t promise my parents won’t when they find out._ The Telvanni never forgot an insult and waited years to pay them back. She’d promised Bjarni that she’d have no hand in his parents’ deaths. She could even probably persuade House Telvanni to keep their hands clean. But oh, didn’t the Dres and the Redoran owe them a few favours, and the Morag Tong inclined to act of their own volition?

            She smiled as they reached the College. The Three taught the Dunmer well.


	9. Chapter 7: Alchemy and Its Relation to Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“Alchemy is an underappreciated art in Skyrim. Most people know that blue mountain flower and wheat make for a healing potion, but did you know that wheat and juniper berries make for a good sleeping potion? Blue mountain flower and hanging moss are a good poultice for wounds but I hope you aren’t planning to use magic anytime soon.”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson, _The Nord’s Guide to Practical Magic_

“Here’s the bloody books.”

            Bjarni dumped the three tomes on Urag’s desk without fanfare, earning raised eyebrows from the Orc. He wished he’d never opened his mouth back in Windhelm because now he had more questions than answers. Whatever his parents were hiding, it didn’t promise to bode well for the future.

            “Appreciated,” Urag said dryly. “Now, Tolfdir’s Tamriel’s preeminent expert on Saarthal. His treatise on Dranor Seloth’s _Night of Tears_ is considered seminal reading in Cyrodiil and High Rock. Could you take the copy you retrieved from Fellglow Keep to him? He’s in the Hall of the Elements with the Eye of Magnus.”

            “The Eye of _what_?” Bjarni yelped, remembering Kodlak’s warning.

            “The Eye of Magnus. Big glowing ball you found in Saarthal,” Urag explained.

            “I will. Once I speak to the Arch-Mage,” Bjarni said. “I have a warning from the Harbinger to the Arch-Mage to relay.”

            “No rush, unless you’re avoiding Ancano,” Urag said. “I’ll arrange for those textbooks soon. I just need to make copies for all of you.”

            Savos Aren was puttering around at the alchemy table when Bjarni barged into his quarters. “This better be good,” the Arch-Mage said with a frown.

            “I have a warning from Kodlak Whitemane to you,” Bjarni said after catching his breath.

            “Who?”

            “The current Harbinger of the Companions. It’s common knowledge they can have prescient dreams. An old Nord magic, I believe.”

            “Who?” Savos repeated before the world became washed with blue, time freezing around them.

            “I apologise,” Quaranir said as he stepped around the pillar to the right. “I don’t have a lot of time… and you’re not the only one breaking rules here.”

            “I’d offer you some mead, but I seem to be all out,” Bjarni said wryly. “What piece of cryptic advice are you going to give me today?”

            “Seek the Augur of Dunlain for answers to the Eye,” Quaranir said quietly. “But first, attend to Dawnstar. There is massive Daedric influence there that must be quelled before it taints the Eye. Speak to Erandur… and do not be afraid to walk in dreams.”

            “I… What?”

            But Quaranir was gone and the world returned to its usual hue.

            “Fucking Psijic!” Bjarni yelled, forgetting who owned the room he was in.

            Savos shook himself like a dog shedding water. “I sympathise more with Tolfdir now. How… unsettling.”

            “Try being the one they’re giving all the cryptic clues too,” Bjarni said sourly. “I couldn’t finish the _Yellow Book of Riddles_. I don’t know why they think I can piece this puzzle together.”

            “Perhaps it’s because you are a born leader who can make something greater than the sum of its parts,” Savos said quietly. “The other three apprentices are gifted mages in their own right, but you’ve managed to unite them into a cohesive unit.”

            “Or maybe it’s just an Altmer fucking with a Nord,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “Look, I spoke to the Harbinger. Some of them have prescient dreams about dangers to Skyrim.”

            “I’ve heard of that.” Savos sighed, setting his mortar and pestle aside. “What is this warning?”

            “’If the Eye opens, we’re all doomed’, or something like that,” Bjarni replied. “Quaranir told me to seek out the Augur of Dunlain, but not before we deal with the Daedra in Dawnstar. Onmund’s father says they’re all having nightmares, the same ones, every night and there’s a Priest of Mara who says that they’re coming from the Tower of the Dawn.”

            “You mean Nightcaller Temple,” Savos said grimly. “It was home to a cult of Vaermina until it was sacked by a band of dream-maddened Orcs.”

            “Oh, it gets even better!” Bjarni observed sarcastically.

            Savos’ mouth quirked in a sympathetic smile. “Such is the burden of a leader. Go to Dawnstar. Tell Mirabelle you have my permission to access whatever you need _within_ reason. She’ll have an idea of what’s best suited to dealing with Vaermina.”

            “Yes, sir.” Bjarni sighed. He wished someone else was responsible for this mess.

…

“Vaermina. You’re telling me that you’re going to Dawnstar because Vaermina’s infected the populace with nightmares. Couldn’t you just punch Ancano in the face? It would make my life a lot easier.”

            Mirabelle Ervine heaved a heavy sigh as Bjarni Ulfricsson relayed everything she really didn’t want to hear. There were Nords with an appreciation of the arcane, scholarly sorts like Tolfdir and his apprentice Onmund, and then there was Bjarni. The other apprentices were advancing in their Schools in leaps and bounds but, according to the weekly report submitted by the faculty, Bjarni had just begun to scratch the surface in Illusion. He had some facility for leadership, she’d grant, but she felt he would do better in Jorrvaskr than at the College. Of course, she couldn’t tell him that.

            “It’s all tied up with the Eye,” Bjarni finished. “It’s Aedric, isn’t it?”

            “I… Yes,” she confessed, surprised he’d figured it out.

            “Thought so. It’s like a shrine… but the shrine’s like a tallow candle compared to the Eye’s sun. It’s powerful enough and dangerous enough that the Harbinger’s had a foreseeing. If it opens, we’re all dead.” Bjarni sighed and rubbed his nose. “I don’t know why Quaranir dumped this on me.”

            “Neither do I,” she admitted. “You are not what the Psijics typically think of as a mage.”

            “Because I don’t learn well from books? The old ones had to figure out magic before writing existed. They probably taught one to the other like the wonder-smithing of the Grey-Manes.” Bjarni shrugged. “We all learn in different ways, Master Wizard. You learn from books, Onmund learns from watching, I learn from doing.”

            She flushed at the implied rebuke and then felt daft. Mirabelle Ervine was eighty, in vigorous middle age for an adept of Restoration and Alteration, and a boy who wasn’t even twenty made her feel ashamed. “Well, if you’re facing Vaermina and Her servants, that means nightmares and most likely poisons. The Nightcaller priests were adept alchemists.”

            Bjarni nodded. “So I make some antidotes. Charred skeever skin and mudcrab chitin should do the trick.”

            “You’re an alchemist?” Mirabelle asked, eyebrows rising.

            He shrugged again. “An amateur. I know a few basic potions and how to distil various alcoholic spirits.”

            “Well, as you say, skeever skin and mudcrab chitin will protect you against most poisons utilised by the Vaermina cultists. They’re probably long gone but their traps still linger.”

            “Or someone’s come back to restart the cult,” Bjarni said grimly. “I don’t give a shit what someone does with their own soul. It’s when they start bothering other folks that I get angry.”

            “Indeed,” Mirabelle agreed. “I can release certain alchemical stocks for you. Do you need robes?”

            “Not personally but J’zargo’s are looking a bit grim. I prefer a nice set of chainmail. If I ever get enough money, I’ll pay Sergius to enchant it against magic.”

            Mirabelle’s eyebrows rose again. “Your father won’t pay for it?”

            “I’m on my own at the College.” Bjarni stepped away from the desk. “I’m gonna see if I can wrangle some more Illusion training out of Drevis. You never know when a Calm spell’s gonna come in handy.”

            She nodded weakly. The gods were testing her with Bjarni Ulfricsson, surely. How could she appease them?  
…

Dawnstar was still shabby, undersized and run by Brina Merilis in all but name. Bjarni skipped the White Hall and went directly to the inn where Erandur the priest was lodging. Four mages and a cleric were overkill. Maybe. Daedric Princes, even the weak ones, were powerful.

            Erandur was only too happy to see them, though Bjarni noticed the flicker of furtive guilty relief in his red eyes. “I’ll explain more at the Temple,” he promised. “Come.”

            They were halfway up the hill when Bjarni said, “We know this tower belonged to the Nightcaller cult of Vaermina who got killed by Orcs they’d driven mad. What’s haunting the nightmares of the Dawnstar folk?”

            Erandur sighed. “It’s easier to show you what you’re up against instead of tell you.”

            Now, Bjarni didn’t consider himself intelligent. He wasn’t stupid but he had nothing on his brother Egil. But watching a priest of Mara open the hidden entrance to the Temple and lead them confidently to a barrier of solid air rang some alarm bells. He noted Brelyna watching the Dunmer too. J’zargo and Onmund would take their cues from them.

            “Behold the Skull of Corruption,” Erandur intoned. “It feeds on the dreams of the local populace. No one knows what Vaermina does with them.”

            “Who cares?” Bjarni asked. “She needs to be stopped.”

            Erandur nodded. “You are correct.”

            “So, when did you stop worshipping Vaermina and take up with Mara? Or are you faking the whole conversion thing?” Bjarni’s hand had slid to the handle of his stalhrim axe.

            “You… I…” Erandur gave a defeated sigh. “I faltered in my faith when we unleashed the mist that sustains the sleepers. I fled and left them to their fate. Mara took pity on me and eventually made me one of Her priests.”

            “So why are you here?” Brelyna asked.

            “To banish the Skull of Corruption. To do that, we must get past the barrier. The library and stillroom should have what we need.”

            Reluctantly, they followed the priest and were forced to kill maddened Orcs and Vaermina worshippers. Bjarni could have happily smashed Erandur’s head in but he knew it wasn’t his call. Besides, no sane man got on Mara’s wrong side.

            When Erandur told him that he’d have to drink something called the Dreamstride which would put in the place in the memories of an acolyte named Casimir, Bjarni was even less amused. It was only Quaranir’s admonishment to be unafraid to walk in dreams that had him drinking the thick syrupy liquid.

            When his vision cleared, he looked down at his hands and saw they were pewter-grey, the nails manicured. A Dunmer and a Nord argued over how to protect the Skull of Corruption, finally settling on the mist, and Brother Casimir obeyed. Watching the battle between the Orcs and cultists was frightening – Bjarni wanted to lift an axe and kill them all, but Casimir was intent on reaching a hanging chain. He reached the chain, pulled it and then darted outside before the mist took hold. The vision faded into blackness once more.

            Bjarni returned to himself on the other side of the barrier, Erandur and the others watching. It was simplicity itself to remove the soul gem powering it, allowing the four entrance. “Let’s end this,” Erandur – Casimir – said grimly.

            “I should let your ‘brothers’ bash your brains in,” Bjarni said flatly. “They trusted you and you ran away.”

            “I-I was scared,” Erandur protested. “I-I wasn’t ready.”

            Bjarni’s hand tightened on this axe. “You’d better be telling the truth or I’ll kill you myself.”

            More death and violence and soon they were in the chamber where the Skull resided. The two cultists Erandur betrayed stepped forward, faces twisted in fury, and Bjarni quickly cast Calm to give them all a chance to talk. He’d probably have to kill them, but they deserved closure.

            Harsh words were exchanged and when they named him Casimir, Erandur quietly told them he was a priest of Mara. Their rage surged past the Calm spell and they attacked the Dunmer in unison. Bjarni engaged the Nord, leaving the Dunmer for Erandur.

            “Are you some mercenary in that filth’s pay?” the cultist spat.

            “I am Bjarni, son of the current Jarl of Windhelm,” was Bjarni’s reply as he parried a blow from the man’s mace. “If your Skull wasn’t driving the people of Dawnstar mad, I’d let you have the mongrel.”

            “I am Thorek,” he replied. “I don’t suppose you’d let us go if we take the Skull elsewhere? Fishermen and miners make for dull dreams.”

            Bjarni was tempted. By Talos, he was sorely tempted. Give Erandur his just desserts and see the Skull removed. Hell, he could probably tell the cultists to set up in Solitude and give the Thalmor nightmares. Drive the Imperials screaming from the province.

            But… no. A vow was a vow. He’d pledged to help destroy the Skull.

            “I can’t, I’m sorry.” Bjarni lifted his stalhrim axe. “A vow is a vow.”

            Thorek sighed. “I understand. You are an honourable man. I will send you to Sovngarde.”

            But in that moment of distraction, Bjarni rolled his shoulder and the axe under arm, catching Thorek deep in the gut. The Nord spat blood and struggled to hold his mace. Bjarni eased him to the ground gently. Poor bastard. “You could go to Sovngarde and feast with Shor,” he said softly. “Renounce Vaermina and Her works.”

            “Can’t…” Thorek’s eyes closed and his last breath left in a rush.

            Erandur had killed the Dunmer and was openly weeping. “I’m sorry, Veren. It had to be done!”

            “You’re lucky Mara forgives all sins, because you’re really quite the cunt,” Bjarni told the priest bluntly. “Now fucking get on with banishing this damned Skull. I have bigger concerns to worry about.”

            Erandur looked in the direction of Brelyna and the rest, but there was no sympathy to be found. His shoulders slumped and he turned towards the Skull, hands uplifted as he besought Mara to assist him.

            “He will betray you as he betrayed the cult,” whispered a proud eldritch voice. “Kill him! Take the Skull for yourself, Bjarni Ulfricsson! You could end wars without bloodshed, drive the Empire screaming from Skyrim, drive the Thalmor screaming from Tamriel! What are a few dreams in comparison to the lives saved?”

            Bjarni thought he’d been tempted before. The images rolling through his mind… The Legion marching out of Skyrim, the Thalmor throwing themselves into the sea. Mirabelle losing the slight sneer she had whenever she dealt with him. Dengeir clutching his chest and collapsing from a heart attack. Torygg bowing in acknowledgment of his right to rule…

            He imagined himself sitting on the Throne of Ysgramor, lauded as High King of Skyrim… and it felt empty. Hollow. Like the eyes of his parents and brother, Ralof and Galmar, Ambarys and all the people he knew in Windhelm…

            “No,” he told Vaermina. “I won’t.”

            “Your friends aren’t so honourable,” she replied. “J’zargo wants to be the greatest mage in the world. Brelyna is a Dunmer and you know she’d kill you if it would help her House. Onmund’s not particularly imaginative but I’m sure I can find a way to tempt him. Take it now before I give it to one of your friends.”

            Bjarni looked in the direction of the other apprentices and saw the temptation in their eyes, even Onmund’s. J’zargo’s hands actually twitched, lightning sparking from fingertip to fingertip, as he eyed Erandur’s unprotected back. Brelyna’s fists were clenched, fire spurting from between the fingers. Onmund’s hands were frosted and his mouth tight.

            “If my friends want my life, they’re welcome to it,” he said aloud. “I won’t betray them.”

            **_“BEGONE.”_** It was Erandur talking but a woman’s voice, low and rich, infinitely sad and patient that came forth.

            Vaermina howled some Daedric obscenity and fell silent as the Skull vanished in a burst of white-gold light.

            Erandur collapsed to his hands and knees, sweating despite the cold, and no one moved to help him. He eventually picked himself up and stumbled over to the bench, practically falling onto it. “I… thank you,” he said hoarsely. “You didn’t have to trust me, but you did.”

            “I didn’t trust you,” Bjarni said bluntly. “But I made a vow.”

            The priest smiled weakly. “You… are a true Nord.”

            “So what do we do with him now?” Onmund asked. “He gave my family nightmares!”

            “He didn’t. The Skull did,” Brelyna corrected. “By the Good Daedra, that touch… Only the teachings that Vaermina’s full of shit saved me.”

            “J’zargo nearly took the Skull,” the Khajiit admitted unhappily. “Then J’zargo thought it is not much fun to steal dreams. You cannot sell them or learn from them.”

            “She offered to make me the greatest Nord mage since Shalidor,” Onmund confessed. “Then I decided I’d rather earn it.”

            Bjarni smiled weakly. “As for Erandur, he’s paid for his sins. I mean, he can go to Oblivion for all I care, but I won’t be the one to send him there.”

            “I’d intended to spend the rest of my life in this shrine,” Erandur admitted. “But… maybe I could do something else.”

            “You could set up in Winterhold or Dawnstar,” Bjarni suggested. “We don’t have any priests up here because they’re two of the poorest Holds in Skyrim.”

            “He should be keelhauled,” Onmund said flatly.

            “Probably. But Mara worked through him. If she’s forgiven him, who are we to argue with the Divine of compassion?”

            “I will work in both Holds,” the Dunmer promised. “You’re right. There are no priests up here. And I know this area the best.”

            “Fine.” Bjarni turned away. “We need to get back to the College.”

            “Do we?” J’zargo asked. “I have heard that there is a very old tomb in Hjaalmarch not so far away from here. Folgunther?”

            Bjarni stopped and touched the Gauldur fragment around his neck. “You’re right,” he said. “The third one is in the Rift. I say we take the slow way back and find the other two fragments. I’m sure the College can manage while we’re gone.”

            “Are you sure?” Onmund asked anxiously.

            “Fairly sure. Maybe we’ll get lucky and come back to a dead Ancano.”

            “I’m not holding my breath, but it is a pleasant thought,” Brelyna conceded. “Can we stop at Riften and speak to Brandyl?”

            “Of course.” Bjarni smiled at her and much to his pleasure, she smiled back.

            Maybe this was the best idea he’d had in a while.


	10. Chapter 8: The Rush for Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“It’s strange how our name for the chant-magic that underlies Nord sorcery comes from a name erased by King Harald. Did Nord fear of magery come from Gauldur and his sons?”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson, _The Nord’s Guide to Practical Magic_

For the life of him, Bjarni couldn’t understand why anyone would want to live in Hjaalmarch. What wasn’t snow was icy stone and what wasn’t stone was freezing bog. Folgunthur lay in the ill-defined border between Haafingar, Hjaalmarch and the Pale, claimed by Morthal’s Jarl because it was more swamp than anything else. Mudcrabs were the least dangerous thing around here and Wuunferth once claimed Hjaalmarch was a necromancer’s playground. Lovely place, really.

            They found the Dunmer who’d tried to breach the ancient tomb, his desiccated corpse located in a rain-ruined camp nearby, and his notes provided useful information. Bjarni sighed and had Brelyna give him the traditional Morrowind cremation. He was crazy but his information would help them.

            They decided to breach the tomb in the morning after a good night’s sleep. Between J’zargo and Onmund’s expertise, the apprentices made a decent camp, and with four of them everyone had a reasonable watch through the night. Steamed mudcrab legs tasted better with butter but Bjarni wasn’t going to complain about a hot meal when the other option was dried meat and hardtack.

            _“Remember the lesson of the Gauldursons,”_ Quaranir had told him. What lesson would that be? Don’t kill your father, don’t covet more power than you had, or don’t go batshit insane and slaughter everyone? He brooded over the notes until dawn touched the horizon.

            “Be bound here, Gauldurson, murderer, betrayer/Condemned by your crimes against realm and lord. May your name and your deeds be forgotten forever/And the charm which you bear be sealed by our ward,” he murmured, quoting the Writ of Sealing. It was the worst kind of damnation, even more so than the sea-death; to have your name and fame erased forevermore, denied Sovngarde, and bound to a rotting corpse so you couldn’t even be inhaled by Kyne to be exhaled once more in a new age. Their father too was bound to Reachwater Rock, if what the notes implied was true.

            “Grim,” Brelyna noted as she walked over with some cold crab meat on hardtack for breakfast.

            “Quaranir told me to remember the lesson of the Gauldursons,” he admitted, accepting it with a smile. “I’m wondering if our fear of magic, even our own Clever Craft, began after this mess.”

            “It’s possible,” she agreed. “What did they do? I didn’t get to read all the notes and everyone was so impressed about the Eye they forgot about the king-draugr and your little amulet.”

            Bjarni touched the fragment he took from Jyrik’s corpse. “Gauldur was a great mage, perhaps the best since Shalidor, and even the High King deferred to him when it came to magic. According to the stories, he had an amulet of great power that gave him wealth, glory and might, and three sons who coveted it. They murdered him in his sleep, which is the act of a kinslayer and a coward, and split the amulet into three. Somehow they went insane, killed a lot of people, and Arch-Mage Geirmund led two score of battlemages in putting them down. They were bound to their embalmed corpses, entombed and their names, deeds and clan erased from the official records, which is about the worst thing that can be done to a Nord as it denies us Sovngarde or rebirth. Daynas knew as much as anyone about them and it’s still very little.”

            “Gauldur… sounds a lot like that word you use sometimes.”

            “Galdur? Aye, it’s the chanting we use for spells. That verse I was quoting is an example of galdur.” Bjarni shrugged. “Magic itself isn’t evil. But it seems easier to get drunk on magical power than any other kind.”

            “I don’t know. Your father-“ She coughed awkwardly. “That was unfair. If you were in Morrowind, the Telvanni would probably be as rude to you as he was to me.”

            “Probably. Both Nords and Dunmer are each convinced we’re the crown of the universe. Arrogance isn’t just an Altmer trait, you know.” He finished his meal. “Let’s wake the others up. I want out of Hjaalmarch as soon as possible.”

            Folgunthur was as creepy as to be expected, the tomb including frostbite spiders in addition to the typical draugr. Mikrul was a tough bastard to put down, using a Shout that sent frost flying everywhere, but even embalmed flesh parted under a stalhrim axe. Bjarni retrieved the fragment, hung it around his neck with Jyrik’s, and let the others divide what loot was entombed with the kinslayer.

            They decided to avoid Morthal – ‘a creepy bog town with creepy bog people’ to quote Onmund, whose mother apparently came from there – and took the road to Whiterun. A helpful group of bandits provided them with somewhere to stay at Robber’s Gorge, the rich pickings available on the trade route between Solitude and Whiterun secreted in not one but two caches. Bjarni was getting quite adept with using Fury to let his enemies thin themselves out before the apprentices entered the fray. Bandits invariably squabbled over loot, but this place was practically a fortress. Shame Idgrod didn’t have the manpower to hold it as it was technically in Hjaalmarch.

            The next day saw them meet up with a Khajiit caravan led by the venerable Ri’saad. Bjarni had met the wise old man once but J’zargo was clearly better known. The two spoke a bit in their purring language before the apprentice turned to the others. “J’zargo has offered our services as guards between here and Whiterun. In return, Ri’saad will trade what we cannot use for equal value in things we can. He has picked up several enchanted pieces, magical scrolls and soul gems.”

            Given that when bartering, Khajiit only traded for half-value, Bjarni knew this was a big concession. “Fine by us,” he agreed after glancing at the other two, who nodded. “Tell him that Winterhold might be worth the trip if he comes up with any more magical items.”

            “Ri’saad will tell Ahkari, for she is responsible for the eastern routes,” the old Khajiit responded with a smile. “But this one thought the Jarl was unwilling to welcome Khajiit to his Hold?”

            “Korir’s not unreasonable when you explain things to him,” Bjarni said wryly. “Just… be careful. I know you Khajiit have different ideas of ownership to us but so much as a pin goes missing, Korir will blame you.”

            “It is the way of things,” Ri’saad said with a sigh. “This one did not expect a Nord to understand such things though.”

            “We met once when I was younger and I’ve traded often with Ahkari,” Bjarni told him. “I’m Bjarni and my friends are Brelyna and Onmund.”

            “Welcome.” Ri’saad inclined his grey-tabby head. “Come. We must reach Rorikstead by noon and Whiterun by sunset.”

            There were a few more bandits that attacked them on the hill between Robber’s Gorge and Rorikstead. They died quickly and the ever-practical Khajiit looted them. “Not even worth the effort,” the guard Khayla said disgustedly as she examined their patched hide armour. They were rolled down the hill to clear the way for the caravan.

            At Rorikstead, they traded a small barrel of waxed wood and several potions in glass vials for three sacks of grain and a dozen tanned wolf pelts. At Barleydark Farm in the southern part of Whiterun where it met Falkreath Hold, they acquired milk and cheese in return for a sack of mysterious objects. They bypassed Barley-Beard Farm, famous for its ale, the snowberry hedge outlining its borders, and more recently the soft wool its goats produced, and went straight on to Whiterun.

            “Balgruuf forbids us to enter unless it’s one at a time,” Ri’saad said with a grimace. “But enough of him. Let us trade for what we can, so you will have lighter loads in Whiterun.”

            Though no one got hefty purses of septims out of the bargaining, Onmund traded a set of enchanted hide armour for five filled lesser soul gems, Brelyna’s share completely cleared out Ri’saad’s stock of Morrowind herbs, and J’zargo acquired a set of enchanted robes in return for a few pieces of jewellery from only Kynareth knew where. Bjarni, after some deliberation, decided to swap the enchanted steel weapons he’d picked up from Folgunthur and Robber’s Gorge in return for a silver circlet that gleamed with Illusion enchantments. The steel plate belonging to the bandit chief at the gorge would sell better inside Whiterun tomorrow morning.

            “You know what we prefer to carry,” Ri’saad noted shrewdly.

            “Small volume, high value,” Bjarni confirmed with a grin.

            Ri’saad said something in Khajiit to J’zargo, who shook his head, and the old feline chuckled. “This one was asking if he’d been teaching you civilised behaviour. J’zargo claims you had manners before you met him.”

            “As I said, I’ve traded a lot with Ahkari,” Bjarni said. “I’m from Windhelm.”

            “Ah! Ahkari mentioned a young noble from Windhelm with manners. She neglected to mention you were a mage.” Ri’saad clucked his tongue in disappointment.

            “I came into the magic a little later,” Bjarni admitted. “I’m open to anything involving Illusion you find. I want to learn the spells of commanding, calming and demoralising on the battlefield.”

            “Illusion? You are a most unusual Nord. Perhaps even almost as smart as a Khajiit.” There was no insult or rancour in Ri’saad’s words. He was simply stating a fact. “What level of skill are you? This one has a couple spellbooks that may be useful.”

            “Around Apprentice, I think,” Bjarni replied. “I can cast Clairvoyance, Calm, Fury and Courage.”

            “Useful spells,” Ri’saad said with a toothy grin. “One of my spellbooks is too powerful for you but I have the Fear spell. Eighty septims and it is yours.”

            Bjarni tossed him a filled lesser soul gem and was handed the book in return. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve got no problem with making my enemies run.”

            “Practice on skeevers,” advised the brown-tabby Khajiit in blue linen who was cooking dinner.

            “Good idea,” Bjarni said with a grin. “May you walk on warm sands.”

            “Not a while in this land of bitter cold,” the Khajiit shuddered. “Still, this one has found harsh beauty in Skyrim.”

            “It’s a hard land but a beautiful one,” Bjarni agreed. “Now, do you want us to stay overnight or should we seek shelter in the city?”

            “J’zargo will stay with his kin,” the mage said calmly. “You go stay at the Mare.”

            Bjarni took the hint and picked himself up. Brelyna and Onmund followed suit. After making their farewells, they reached the gates just before curfew and headed through the Plains District to the Bannered Mare. It was winter but Whiterun never really stopped trading, so Hulda charged them an arm and a leg to share a room. Brelyna got the bed. Bjarni and Onmund slept on pallets on either side.

            The next day involved getting rid of the heavier loot from Folgunthur and Robber’s Gorge. Adrianne Avenicci paid enough gold for the steel plate, probably some hapless knight’s armour, to make Onmund’s eyes pop while the enchanted jewellery that did Bjarni no good proved popular with Belethor. Arcadia was happy to give Bjarni some training in alchemy, so he indulged in it while Brelyna haggled over some simple silver jewellery with Fralia Grey-Mane. Onmund was still at Belethor’s trying to buy some more soul gems.

            A little wiser in the ways of potions that enhanced the various mage Schools than he was a few hours ago, Bjarni returned to Ri’saad’s caravan with a number of vials. “Frost resistance,” he said with a grin. “Thistle and purple mountain flower, mostly. Can I buy that other Illusion spellbook?”

            It turned out to be Frenzy, the more powerful version of Fear, and casting it would drain most of his magicka reserve until he learned to utilise it properly. But if it got a stronger-willed enemy laying waste to his own allies, it would be worth the drain… Bjarni sat and absorbed the knowledge from the books. He didn’t know how the mages managed to scribe spells that imprinted the knowledge in one’s mind, but he was impressed. Maybe it was a kind of enchantment.

            Ri’saad, despite being forbidden entrance to Whiterun, got a lot of business from inside and outside the walls. Most rural Nords, while distrustful of the Khajiit, still traded with them. It was barter, mostly, as most churls didn’t have more than a handful of gold to their name. The traditional wages for a landless churl who worked for another were one septim a day, two sets of clothing a year, bed and board. Most franklins just paid extra coin instead of providing clothing, bed and board, especially if they were near the cities or villages, but others paid lip service by giving away hand-me-down clothing, a straw pallet and leftover food. At least that how it was in the Old Holds.

            Balgruuf’s franklins had to be wealthier than their eastern counterparts, because only the poorest churls wore lumpy undyed homespun. Everyone else wore dyed garments in cotton or goat’s wool, clothing generally reserved for the richer churls and poorer franklins in the Old Holds. One Kreathling woman, wheeling barrels of Barley-Beard ale and bolts of fabric in a handcart, wore undyed goat’s wool of a deep cream embroidered with brown yarn from mammoth fur that enhanced her olive-bronze complexion and long silky black hair. Ri’saad traded a dozen little sacks for two small barrels and a bolt of what looked like felt, maybe. “This one sees the goats have paid for themselves,” he noted with a feline grin.

            “Haven’t they? Balgruuf’s bought up this year’s batch of wool plush. If I hadn’t put that bolt aside for you, it would have been snapped up too,” she answered. “We cross-bred the males with some Rifter nannies. Wool’s a little coarser but it stands up to the snow better.”

            “Hmm, good for cloaks. Better than furs at least.” Ri’saad gave a dramatic shudder.

            “I’ll put aside a bolt for you next winter.”

            “This one will bring more dyes in anticipation.”

            She nodded and grabbed the handcart, heading for Whiterun’s gates. If it wasn’t for her shorter height and buxom figure, Bjarni would have mistaken her for his mother from behind. Maybe she was one of Great-Uncle Balgeir’s bastard children. Family history painted the man as promiscuous and fertile.

            “Is that felt?” Bjarni asked Ri’saad curiously as Atahbah wrestled the bolt into her tent.

            “No. Wool plush – goat’s wool woven on a velvet loom,” he replied. “This one comes here every year and trades for it. Cheaper than silk and much warmer. Two years ago, we had a glut of silk-wool goats in Elseweyr, so we brought some up to Skyrim to sell. A hard journey but one that has produced much profit.”

            “And one bolt is enough for you?” Bjarni asked.

            “My caravan. This one does not like fur because he already wears it. Tunics and leg-wraps keep us warm in the snows.” Ri’saad smiled a little. “Perhaps one could find enough for a tunic for the polite noble from Windhelm… for a suitable price.”

            Bjarni couldn’t resist the idea of a nice new tunic. He wasn’t a clotheshorse, but his winter clothing was getting a little ragged, and the garments the Khajiit wore were almost as colourful as the Dunmer garb he liked. One filled greater soul gem later and he was being measured by Atahbah for a Khajiit-style tunic trimmed with blue cotton. The woman was a marvel to watch. By the time Brelyna and Onmund came looking for him, Bjarni was the proud owner of the softest, most comfortable tunic he’d ever possessed.

            “Where’s J’zargo?” Onmund asked.

            “On a small errand. He will be back by sunset,” promised Ri’saad.

            They shared tea with the Khajiit and by sunset, J’zargo had returned with the male Khajiit in blue linen. “They will not bother us again,” the apprentice said darkly.

            “They?” Brelyna asked.

            “Bandits who tried to rob us last time we were here,” the other Khajiit said. “We killed them and took their stuff.”

            Reluctantly, they bid the Khajiit farewell and caught the carriage to the Rift. After some quiet discussion, they agreed to get off at Ivarstead, get the third fragment of Gauldur’s amulet, and go on foot to Riften.

            Ivarstead was known for its lumber and being the point from which pilgrims climbed the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar. Apparently, it was also now haunted by ghosts from Shroud Hearth Barrow, and the innkeeper begged the honoured mages to exorcise it.

            The ‘ghost’ turned out to be an insane Dunmer who drank too much of a concoction that made him look like a ghost. They took his meagre belongings and told Willem what happened. The innkeeper swore a blue streak and gave them the Sapphire Claw to the Barrow, should they wish to deal with the draugr inside.

            They decided to split up – Bjarni and J’zargo for Geirmund’s Hall and Brelyna and Onmund for Shroud Hearth Barrow.

            After getting the shit beaten out of him by Sigdis and his ghostly copies, having to be saved by J’zargo (which the Khajiit would never let him forget about) and nearly bleeding to death in the inn, Bjarni wished he’d taken the Shroud Hearth option. But they had the third fragment and more things to trade in Riften, assuming the Thieves didn’t just rob them on the way there.

            In the end, they had to pay precious gold to catch a ride to Riften, as Bjarni’s injuries were more than a couple healing potions could fix. He felt cold, his magicka leached by the moss-and-blue mountain flower poultice Onmund made on his instructions, and he kept on shivering even in the Rift’s relative warmth. “You need to learn a few Destruction spells,” J’zargo advised from one side. “Chain lightning is good. It kills many targets.”

            Brelyna was chafing his wrist on the other side, her hands almost too hot. “He’s right,” she agreed. “You either need to learn some Destruction magic or work on Skin spells.”

            “They’re worthless with armour,” Onmund pointed out. “Besides, he really needs to learn how to exercise his magicka. It’s the only way he’ll develop enough energy to hold his own in arcane combat.”

            “That’s true,” Brelyna conceded. “But that’s not something you can rush.”

            “Nothing worthwhile can be acquired quickly,” Onmund said soberly. “If you want power, you need to earn it, and that can’t be hurried.”

            In a moment of realisation, he understood – or thought he did – what Quaranir was saying about the Gauldursons. They were hungry for power, so they killed their father and were overwhelmed by his amulet, maybe. Whatever happened, they rushed and ran heedlessly, laying waste to Skyrim because they couldn’t handle the power. It got them killed and damned.

            “You’re right,” he croaked. “Once we’re done in Riften, we’ll go back to the College. I’ll ask Tolfdir for lessons in how to exercise my magical muscles.”

            Brelyna smiled. “We can start sooner. Once you’re healed.”

            He slipped into an uneasy sleep, heartened by her promise… and frightened too. What if he couldn’t handle the power of his own magicka?


	11. Interlude: The Triune Virtues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“One must follow the triune virtues of duty, gravity, and piety.”_

Athyn Sarethi, _The True Noble Code_

Brelyna was the heir to House Telvanni pending this upcoming meeting with Brandyl through her father Maryon. But her mother Lilitu was of House Redoran and impressed the Triune Virtues on her from an early age: duty, gravity and piety. She was honest enough to admit that she’d acted more like a giddy girl than a true Dunmer of the Great Houses, but the taste of freedom and self-reliance was sweet. Gadding about Skyrim in search of magical artefacts was more enjoyable than poring over half-rotted history books about the False Tribunal and the glories of lost Vvardenfell. But Bjarni’s injuries at Geirmund’s Hall sharply reminded her that adventuring was as dangerous as it could be profitable. The Nord noble had been right to remind them they should return to Winterhold after this, as if his near-death at the hands of a king-draugr brought his own duties to mind.

            “So, if you were Dunmer, I’d tell you to imagine the fire within your soul expanding like a steadily fed bonfire,” Brelyna told the injured youth as they trundled towards Riften. The carriage driver was indifferent to the activities of the four mages crammed into his wagon. “But you’re a Nord. Ice, not fire.”

            Bjarni smiled slightly. “Not… exactly. Aye, we’re the folk of the frost, but we’re the children of Kyne Sister-Hawk. Sky and storm.”

            “Whirlwind,” Onmund suggested. “Tolfdir told me to imagine myself as the eye of a rising storm, a whirlwind. Calm amid the chaos.”

            Bjarni nodded. “Got it. Whirlwind.”

            Brelyna felt his magicka stir… then spark out, dampened by the ingredients in the poultice that bound his wounds up. He’d warned them himself of the effects when instructing Onmund how to make it.

            “Maybe when I’m healed,” he said with a wry smile. Always laughing and smiling. Though like the storm, he was ferocious when infuriated.

            J’zargo and Onmund were napping on the seats when he next spoke. “I understand the lesson of the Gauldursons now. They went for power without truly earning it and that impatience destroyed a lot of people before they were put down.”

            “That could be it,” she agreed. “Dunmer are encouraged to be patient, probably to temper the fire within.”

            “Aye, the best flames burn the slowest and steadiest.”

            It was strange how this son of two potential dangers to Morrowind understood their ways. She was sometimes surprised to see he had fair skin smattered with freckles and blue-green eyes instead of ash-grey and red. “You know, prudence would dictate we be enemies,” she finally said.

            “Is that prudence or the grudge of a hundred generations?” he countered. “I try not to consider everyone I meet an enemy, unless they’re Thalmor.”

            Brelyna smiled ruefully. “Paranoia is a survival trait in House Telvanni. The Argonian invasion stamped out a lot of the scheming but we’re still the most cunning of the Dunmer Great Houses.”

            “If you want to look at paranoia unchecked by wit or wisdom, look at Dengeir in Falkreath,” he replied. “Now, there might be something to the rumours he’s been haunted by Forsworn sorcery since my grandma died. She was Reacher Nord, apparently, from Lost Valley clan. The Reacher Nords are… weird, in every sense of the word. Doom-driven and unsettling, definitely a bit alien.”

            She remembered the discussion they had about the hole in Bjarni’s family history. “Do you think how she died might have something to do with that Irkand’s family?”

            “No. That’s a bit more recent. Grandma died when Mother was a child.” Bjarni sighed gustily.

            Then he turned the questions on her. “What are you going to do about Brand-Shei? He seems like a decent sort. The Dunmer of the Grey Quarter speak well of him.”

            “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He’s the heir but… he’s completely unsuitable. He’s too old to learn the ways of the Great House properly. Prudence would be to, well, remove him. But it’s not his fault he won’t suit.”

            Bjarni pursed his lips. “I can only offer advice on what a Nord would do. Every land-owning clan must offer a well-armoured warrior to the Jarl for service during a war or pay five pounds of silver. Problem is, just because you’re a franklin doesn’t mean you’re rich. Some scrape together the coin – it’s about five hundred septims – or they’ll sponsor a competent churl and adopt him.”

            “Don’t the Jarls have standing armies?” Brelyna asked with an arched eyebrow.

            “Aye, but that number is capped at two hundred by _Imperial_ law. Eastmarch could raise a thousand warriors within the week if it wanted. If we did that, we’d better be prepared to start a civil war.” His expression was grim. “But many of the poorer franklin clans get around the conscription law by having someone serve in the Jarl’s household, which grants immediate immunity. My father’s latrine cleaner can trace his ancestry back to the First Era.”

            She frowned a little. “Franklin, churl? What are those?”

            “Oh, they’re the classes. Technically thralls are at the bottom of the pecking order but since Skyrim’s effectively banned slavery outside very specific indebted circumstances, they don’t count.” Bjarni grunted as he shifted on his back. “Churls are landless free folk who work for someone else or on their own. They can speak and vote in the Holdmoot, travel and marry as they wish, but their wergild is set at three hundred and three score septims, which is the minimum legal wage for a year.”

            She nodded. “So lowest of the low?”

            “Not necessarily. There are churls who are richer than some franklins, particularly those with marketable skills like weaving or blacksmithing.” Bjarni chuckled. “There was this weaver who traded with Ri’saad at Whiterun. Clever woman – wore simple clothing like any churl but it was of the finest wool I ever saw. Same fabric as my new tunic, in fact. She knew not to flaunt her success in the face of some sour franklin looking to pick a fight.”

            “So franklins are landowners?” she prompted and Bjarni nodded.

            “Yeah. There are carls, who are halfway between churl and franklin, who hold and work a half-hide of land in their own name or are respected free folk belonging to something like the Companions. But franklins are the ones who work a full hide, which is the minimum you need to farm for a family. The rank has expanded to include anyone who owns a house and business in the city. Their wergild is five pounds of silver – five hundred septims.” Bjarni sighed heavily. “There are franklins who own large farms and have churls work them. These are the ones who have enough gold to buy themselves a hereditary Thaneship. Have someone from the clan do something reasonably impressive like clear out a den of bandits, then be titled.”

            Brelyna smirked. “Then we’re all Thanes four times over.”

            He chuckled, then winced. “Most Holds require you to be a Nord. Whiterun and Haafingar are the ones who allow otherwise. Eastmarch and the Pale would be the hardest for any non-Nord to rise to Thane.”

            “Ah.” Brelyna shifted a bit as her backside was numb. “In the old Imperial days, anyone could join the Great Houses, but it was harder to rise if you weren’t Dunmer. Now, you’d have to singlehandedly save the realm before they’d consider giving you the time of day, let alone make you a member of the Great Houses.”

            “More or less the same here. There are people who hold equal rank to a Thane. Any Companion who’s achieved the Circle, the family of a Jarl, some gifted master bards or court wizards…” Bjarni sighed again. “Thanes are meant to be the best and brightest of the Hold, those who elevate or dismiss a Jarl, those who command in a time of crisis. Sadly, there’s too many hereditary Jarls who can barely wield a dinner fork, let alone a sword.”

            “I know what you mean,” Brelyna agreed. “So if Brandyl were a Nord who was meant to be a Thane, but was raised as a churl, what would you do?”

            “Easy. Depending on his talents, I’d make him a franklin or send him to serve in the Jarl’s court. I hear he’s a sharp trader. Surely you can figure something out.”

            “I… might be able to. Thanks, Bjarni.”

            “You’re welcome. I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

            They arrived at Riften as dawn glowed red to the east. The guard demanded a visitor’s fee until J’zargo hissed in disgust that it was the clumsiest attempt at a bribe he’d ever heard of. The guard flushed, asked them not to tell anyone, and let them in.

            As always, the Temple of Mara was open, and a Dunmer priestess quickly hurried to tend Bjarni’s wounds. “I’ll go look for Brandyl,” Brelyna said hastily, knowing she couldn’t hide her disgust with a Dunmer serving an Aedra, even forgiving Mara.

            There was already the Argonian she remembered from her fire-scrying tending to his stall. “If anything pleases the eye, let me know,” he rasped.

            “I didn’t know there were any Saxhleel jewellers left outside of Blackmarsh,” she said, examining the fine work before her. It was an interesting mixture of Nord, Dunmer and Argonian styles.

            “A few of us exist,” the Argonian said modestly. “I was hoping to make some more Saxhleel designs, but I’m out of sapphires, mammoth ivory and gold ore. Is it too much to hope you might have some of what I need?”

            Brelyna smiled. “I have two flawless sapphires and a mammoth tusk. If you’re not fussy about Transmuted gold, I can get some ore from the blacksmith…”

            “I don’t care where it comes from,” he said eagerly. “I can pay you in gold, maybe even one of my finer pieces.”

            By the time she’d procured everything she needed, Brandyl had come to his stall and opened it. Interestingly, he sold a mixture of goods from Morrowind and Cyrodiil. Did he have contacts over the border? That… could be useful.

            She settled business with Madesi, who gave her a decent amount of coin and a lovely silver and ruby necklace, before turning to Brandyl. “Fine goods from Morrowind,” he greeted. “How may I serve you?”

            “My name is Brelyna Maryon,” she said, pulling Lymdrenn’s water-stained diary from her belt-pouch. “You would be Brand-Shei, right? Raised by Argonians on the docks of Windhelm after being found as a baby?”

            “I… Yes,” he said warily, Telvanni paranoia making his eyes go a darker shade of crimson.

            “I found this in the wreck of the _Pride of Tel Vos._ ” She handed over the diary and watched him read it slowly.

            “I knew I was found wrapped in a blanket with House Telvanni’s sigil on it, but I didn’t know if I was of the blood or just some servant’s get,” Brandyl finally said. “Am… Am I the heir?”

            “Technically, yes. In reality…” Brelyna sighed. “My bloodline became heirs after yours was presumed extinct. I’m the current official heir.”

            “Ah.” Brandyl gave the book back. “Are… you going to remove me? I’ve read about the Telvanni. They… We… are very pragmatic like that.”

            “Prudence and the teachings of Mephala would say ‘yes’,” she admitted. “But Azura teaches us hope and foresight. You wouldn’t be confirmed as heir because you’ve been raised outside Morrowind and are too old to properly learn the ways. But I could think of a use or three for a merchant with contacts ranging from Windhelm to Cyrodiil…”

            “My life and home are in Riften,” Brandyl said quietly. “I don’t think I could adapt to Morrowind.”

            “You won’t have to. These are early days yet, but I think I could make you Telvanni’s official trading magnate in Skyrim.” Brelyna smiled wryly. “It sounds grander than it is at the moment. You’d be buying and selling things for us, making deals with the East Empire Trade Company and any organisation that would be useful, possibly passing on information. In return, we will buy you a house and give you a stipend, plus a percentage on every deal.”

            Brandyl’s face was almost as bright as the sunrise. “Truly? Oh thank the Aedra and Daedra!”

            Brelyna smiled, though her heart ached. She envied Brandyl his freedom from House politics. “My mother’s from House Redoran. She’d expect me to follow the virtues of piety, duty and gravity. House Telvanni failed you. We can’t return what has been lost to you, but you won’t be alone from now on.”

            He wiped at his cheeks. “I’m grateful. Truly. Is there anything I can do for you in return?”

            She paused and then nodded. “If it’s safe to do so, I need you to look into the history of a Redguard named Irkand and the quarrel his family have with the Jarls of Falkreath. There’s something we might be able to use in dealing with a potential threat to Morrowind.”

            Brandyl’s eyebrow rose. “If you’re looking to hire an assassin, go to the Morag Tong, cousin. Irkand Aurelius kills for Arkay these days and before that, he killed for Talos and the Empire.”

            “Irkand Aurelius?” Interesting, his surname was Imperial…

            “Aye. He was a Blade, the only one to be declared Immunitas by the Emperor himself.” Brandyl pursed his lips. “Don’t know why he’d hate the Kreathling Jarls though. I mean, unless it’s on principle. Dengeir’s a paranoid old coot.”

            “I’ve heard about him. Apparently Irkand’s brother killed Dengeir’s brother at a parley during or just after the Great War.”

            Brandyl’s other eyebrow shot up. “Isn’t _that_ interesting? I thought the Aurelii had been wiped out by the Thalmor. I was living in Bruma at the time. Arius Aurelius was absolutely convinced that he was the descendant of Martin Septim and the Hero of Kvatch and decided to rebel against the Empire. The Thalmor killed the Blades and the Legion nailed him to a cross.”

            “Wow.” Brelyna smiled at Brandyl. “I was wondering because… Well.”

            “I know what you mean. Bjarni’s a good lad and Egil’s impartial, if a bit of an arse towards Dunmer because of the Three Good Daedra and him being a Stendarr worshipper, but the Jarl’s certifiable and his wife’s twice as bad.” Brandyl arranged something on his stall-bench. “But Ulfric won’t make Bjarni heir, sad to say. Boy was marked for Falkreath until some recent disgrace. Probably drank too much at the Cornerclub instead of Candlehearth Hall.”

            “Nah, he’s a mage and Dengeir had a shit fit about it.” Brelyna smirked. “He’s not bad at it, either.”

            “You know him?”

            “I consider him something of a friend.” Brelyna smiled a little. “Cousin, you’ve already helped me considerably. Do you need anything?”

            “Some flin would be nice,” he said wistfully.

            “I’ll see some sent down from Windhelm.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Azura guide, Mephala cloak, Boethiah act.”

            “Azura’s fortune with you.” Brandyl blushed and returned to his stall.

            Brelyna walked back to the Temple of Mara with a slight smile. Brandyl had helped her more than he’d ever know. The Triune Virtues had served her well.


	12. Chapter 9: Dwemer Arts and Crafts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I am drawing out the mages’ questline because it’s so ridiculously short when compared to the Thieves or Dark Brotherhood questlines. Thank FudgeMuppet for reminding me about the Mistwatch quest and why the stairs should be narrower for defensive purposes.

 

_“The Dwemer were the greatest smiths and technologists in Tamriel. Their mechanical marvels still toil unceasingly in their crumbling cities to this very day.”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson, _The Nord’s Guide to Practical Magic_

Dinya and her husband Maramal were efficient. Bjarni’s draugr wounds were cured within the day, though the lingering effects would last for a few more, and they even replaced his ruined leather breeches with a new set. His chainmail needed repair, however, so he took the shirt over to Balimund across the marketplace and wondered how much it would cost. Oengus War-Anvil’s work was famous across Skyrim and few provincial smiths felt up to touching it.

            Balimund was of a different breed however. He took one look at the chainmail and snorted. “No wonder this gave way under a draugr’s axe. Look at it! Poor steel and a poorer arm hammered this.”

            “Oengus War-Anvil made it,” Bjarni told the brown-haired blacksmith.

            “Yes, I know. The man’s good enough with swords and axes, but shite with anything requiring delicacy.” Balimund pursed his lips. “Still, I need something to teach Asbjorn how to weave chainmail rings together, and this will do. I’ll give you a hundred septims for it.”

            It was Bjarni’s turn to snort. “Poor steel or not, chainmail’s not cheap. Three hundred septims because I know you’ll find some poor sellsword who’ll buy it for Oengus’ mark.”

            “Three hundred! Did you want my forge while you were at it?”

            And so began the haggling session. Rifters were sharp traders when they were honest, outright thieves when they weren’t, but Bjarni held his own for a respectable amount of time. They eventually settled on a hundred and fifty septims for the chainmail in coin or two hundred septims in trade towards a nice set of scaled armour. “It’s second-hand,” Balimund admitted as he laid out the cuirass. “That little shit Harrald owned the set until he outgrew it.”

            Bjarni winced. He knew Harrald Law-Giver. Laila’s entire family were proof that hereditary nobility was a bad idea. Pity the other option for the Jarl’s throne was Maven fucking Black-Briar.

            “Don’t worry, it’s been thoroughly cleaned,” Balimund assured him.

            “I hope you scrubbed the stupidity off,” Bjarni said dryly. “Hold it for me. I think I need to sell a few things.”

            “I’ll give you the set for that axe,” Balimund said, nodding at the stalhrim axe.

            “No. I paid for this axe in blood.” Bjarni nodded and turned towards Mistveil Keep. Wylandriah was the court mage here. Maybe he could sell a few more filled soul gems.

            It appeared idiocy extended to the Jarl’s court, because Wylandriah was the biggest moron he’d ever met wearing mage robes. And Mirabelle sneered at him? Bjarni wasn’t academically smart but he had a few more brains than the old girl here. Still, he was able to trade Savos’ Magelight staff and the last of his soul gems for some coin, volunteer to pick up Harrald’s sword for him from Balimund, and thank Talos he’d been born with a full set of wits.

            “That was quick,” Balimund noted.

            “I had a few things to sell,” Bjarni replied. “Oh, when we’re done, can I run Harrald’s sword up to Mistveil Keep?”

            The smith grinned. “Sure. Just tell the lazy shit to stop slaying walls!”

            It took a half-hour to adjust the scaled armour to Bjarni as Balimund needed to stitch in premade scale panels to accommodate the bulk. Harrald was the same height as Bjarni but leaner. His apprentice Asbjorn watched and took notes, asking intelligent questions.

            When they were done, Bjarni put the cuirass on over his shirt and leather breeches. It was snugly fitted, the corundum reinforcement gleaming gold in the forge’s light, and lighter than his chainmail shirt. “Good job,” he said as he handed over the coin. It was worth every septim.

            Balimund smiled and handed over Harrald’s sword, which was better steel than the brat deserved. “Come by any time,” he replied. “You haggle almost like a Rifter.”

            “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bjarni said wryly as he waved.

            Harrald tossed a few gems without even looking in Bjarni’s direction after snatching the sword from his hands. That was just insulting. Still, saved him from actually having to socialise with that moron.

            Brelyna was talking to her cousin, Onmund was listening wide-eyed to the outrageous claims of a red-haired Reacher peddling Falmer Blood Elixir, and J’zargo was only the gods knew where. Bjarni smiled and left them to it. He wouldn’t be fit to travel for a day or so anyway.

            He found himself at the docks, watching the fishing boats on the lake. A desperate Argonian approached. “Please, please take it!” she begged.

            “Take what?” he asked.

            “This!” she said, throwing a Dwemer cube at him.

            He caught it reflexively and yelled as incomprehensible knowledge flooded into his mind. Before he could return it, the Argonian ran away.

            Bjarni took a deep breath and steadied himself. The meditation techniques his mother inflicted on him and Egil actually came in handy as he separated himself from the Dwemer ramblings. They still lingered in his mind and he knew the Lexicon wanted to return to… Avanchnzel in the Jeralls. Not so far away in the scheme of things.

            He returned to the marketplace and approached Brelyna. “Do I have ‘give me a probably sentient Dwemer cube that wants to return home’ written on my forehead?” he asked her sourly.

            “She finally managed to find a sucker, huh?” Brand-Shei asked sympathetically.

            “No. Damn wench threw it at me.” Bjarni glared at the red and black cube in his hand. “It wants to return to Avanchnzel, which is tucked into the little corner where the Rift touches Cyrodiil in the Jerall Mountains.”

            Brelyna heaved a heavy sigh. “Trouble follows you, Bjarni. But we’ll go. Arniel’s been wanting Dwemer components for an experiment.”

            “More like trouble finds me,” he muttered.

            They saved Onmund from getting gulled by the redhead, who took their interference with a wry smirk, and found J’zargo outside the gates talking to Ahkari. Bjarni grinned at his favourite Khajiit, handed over the gemstones from Harrald in return for a nice amount of septims, and then they headed towards Avanchnzel.

            It was a long hike and J’zargo complained all the way. “You can have my share of the loot,” Bjarni promised the Khajiit. “I’m only doing this because a bloody Argonian tossed this at me and I caught it.”

            That mollified J’zargo. He was the greediest of the apprentices, though not in the traditional stereotype of the Khajiit. He wanted lots of gold so he could receive a lot of personal training from Faralda and Bjarni suspected he wanted to become a Master Destruction mage to prove himself. They’d never really sat down and talked.

            They reached the Dwemer ruins and camped for the night outside. Bjarni spent most of the night meditating to give himself a bit of a rest from the urge to go inside. What possessed the Argonian to steal something from Dwemer ruins? Probably greed, he supposed.

            In the morning, they entered. Dwemer automatons were tough but J’zargo’s Chain Lightning and Bjarni’s stalhrim axe were tougher. The Argonian’s story played out in the form of ghosts and Bjarni shuddered. When he found each body, he performed last rites, Brelyna cremating their bodies. At least these poor bastards would find rest.

            The last obstacle was a Dwarven Centurion, one of the great automatons that stood tall as a giant and moved like a man. Brelyna played target as her immunity to fire extended to scorching hot steam, while Onmund cast Ice Storm to freeze its joints and J’zargo’s Chain Lightning crawled blue-white across copper. Bjarni was striking at the frost-weakened joints and casting Courage on his friends to hearten them. By the time it fell, everyone was spent, but they still had to press on.

            Bjarni was relieved to put the Lexicon back where it belonged. When the cube clicked into place, the knowledge inside his head sorted itself out, giving him an understanding of how the Dwemer worked metal and how their bulky copper armour was properly worn. He knew that if he were to pick up a forge hammer, he could smith more efficiently than nearly any Nord alive. His fingers itched to test out his new knowledge.

            “It’s done,” he said hoarsely. “I-I think this was a smithy. I want to forge something now.”

            “Amuse yourself on your own time, not J’zargo’s,” the Khajiit said dryly. “Should we return to Riften or go up to Winterhold?”

            “Winterhold,” Bjarni said firmly. “We’ve been away too long.”

…

They were following the road that hugged the Velothi Mountains to Windhelm when, near a fort abandoned by Bjarni’s grandfather Hoag, a bruised woman in rags ran up to them. “There’s bandits at Mistwatch,” she said in between sobs. “They’re kidnapping people for ransom! Please do something!”

            Bjarni cast Calm on her and extracted a few more details before sending her home with some spare clothing scrounged between the mages, a dwarven dagger from Avanchnzel and food for a couple days. It seemed a new leader whipped some local bandits into shape and they moved into Mistwatch, started kidnapping churls and poor franklins for ransom, and openly recruiting among the less ethical sellswords. When the woman was sent on her way back to Darkwater Crossing, Bjarni indulged himself in a fit of pungent swearing. How had this happened without his father knowing or doing anything about it?

            Brelyna sighed. “I’m guessing we’re doing something about this?”

            “Yes,” he grated. “And when we get to Windhelm, I’ll have having words with my father’s people for letting it go on so long.”

            They achieved entrance to Mistwatch readily enough, J’zargo’s new knack for casting spells silently eliminating the Orc and three Nords standing watch outside. Inside, they were heading for the stairs when someone said, “Psst, over here!”

            Said someone was a scrawny Colovian Nord named Christer, who’d plucked up the courage to search for the bandits after they kidnapped his wife Fjola. He gave them details and a key one of the bandits dropped. In return, Bjarni told him to stay put and they’d bring back news as soon as possible.

            The stairs were built too wide for defensive purposes because it meant enemies could flank the defenders, as the Mistwatch bandits discovered the hard way. They found a woman’s body in a cell and while she was a Nord, there was no wedding ring on her. So this was either Fjola’s body looted of even her wedding band or Christer’s wife was still alive at the top of the tower.

            When they reached the top of Mistwatch Keep, there was a brown-haired woman in totem-carved armour pacing around in the chamber. That meant one of two things – she was either a renegade from a wealthy clan or she’d found a blacksmith willing to forge the armour. Bjarni had only ever seen one full set of the armour in his life and it belonged to his mother. Since this set was carved with wolves instead of bears, it didn’t come from her.

            They burst in, spells blazing, and the bandit leader fell after giving Onmund the kind of facial scar that would impress would-be lovers. It was only after they stripped her corpse that they realised that _this_ was Fjola.

            “Oops,” J’zargo said. “What will we tell Christer?”

            “She was killed by the bandits,” Bjarni said shortly. “It’s not exactly a lie.”

            Christer took the lie as well as could be expected, bursting into tears and telling them to keep his wife’s wedding band. Bjarni gently escorted the man from Mistwatch Keep and pointed him south. The Cyrods could keep him.

            Then it was on to Windhelm. Bjarni needed to have words with his father’s Steward at the very least.


	13. Interlude: The Appearance of Honour and Respect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

 

_“We're fighting because Skyrim needs heroes, and there's no one else but us.”_

Ulfric Stormcloak

“How in the name of Talos could you miss an organised warband the size of the one at Mistwatch?”

            Bjarni’s voice didn’t make the Palace of the Kings shake as Ulfric’s did but his roar was definitely heard. The youth had cornered poor Jorleif near the Throne of Ysgramor, demanding answers about some group of bandits that set up shop in an abandoned fort in the Velothi Mountains, and his three mage friends watched with tight, disapproving expressions. Ulfric’s skin crawled at the presence of a Dunmer and Khajiit in his Great Hall but the reputation of the College’s new apprentices was growing with every report of their deeds. Wiping out bandit enclaves, plumbing the depths of ancient tombs and laying evils to rest, freeing Dawnstar from the influence of a Daedric Prince… If they’d all been Nords, they could have been Thanes in three Holds. People were beginning to wonder if magic, properly used, wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe Dunmer and Khajiit weren’t evil, just… different. Perhaps they were even decent people.

            Ulfric was aware that neither the Dunmer nor the Khajiit had any great love for the Thalmor. True, the Dominion had annexed and split Elseweyr, but most of the Khajiit spat at the mention of the Altmer. And the Dunmer were opposites of the Altmer in almost every way.

            It was their preference for the Empire that troubled him. Eastmarch was home to refugees from more than the ash. When Morrowind seceded from the Empire, they hunted down the loyalist Hlaalu and other Imperial-aligned Dunmer. Not all of them went to Cyrodiil. Many settled in Eastmarch and the Rift.

            Jorleif held his hands up peaceably. “We didn’t know about them, Bjarni. Most travellers come through the northern route or by boat, not through the Velothi Mountains.”

            “What? No churls or franklins came here to report missing kin?” Bjarni retorted scornfully. In this mood, his resemblance to Sigdrifa was uncanny.

            “We don’t always have the manpower to search for every peasant tired of farming,” Ulfric rumbled. “Most aren’t kidnapped, Bjarni. They leave for what they think are better things.”

            “One would _think_ , Father, that a group of people missing from the same area would be an indication something was wrong,” Bjarni replied, turning to face Ulfric fully. “How can we save Skyrim if we can’t even save our own people?”

            The past month or so had hardened his eldest. Some of the baby fat was gone, leaving the rugged planes of his face leaner, and the new scaled armour showed more defined muscles and some scarring. He was still patchy-bearded but his brown-black hair was longer, streaked with chestnut from the sun. That stalhrim axe he found somewhere rode easily on his hip. Nords had murdered each other for weapons made from the ancient ice of the Atmorans. He wore three fragmented pieces of ivory around his neck, a complete bone amulet etched with runes, and a plain silver circlet that shone with enchantment.

            Ulfric cast his glance at the other apprentices. The Telvanni girl regarded him with an icy hauteur out of place on a Dunmer’s ash-grey features while the Broken-Tusk lad watched him steadily out of a heroically scarred face and the Khajiit appeared more amused than anything else. The trio wore better robes and more enchanted jewellery, mostly copper and silver, this time around. It appeared following in Bjarni’s wake was making them wealthy.

            “You speak of matters that don’t concern you in front of outsiders,” Ulfric finally said.

            “Given the amount of messes we’ve cleaned up in the Old Holds, I think it concerns us,” Bjarni replied flatly.

            “You and your friends have profited handsomely,” Ulfric pointed out.

            “Only because we’ve fought things we could survive,” Bjarni countered. “It’s been more luck than anything else. I nearly _died_ at Geirmund’s Hall putting down the draugr of Sigdis Gauldurson.”

            “ _You_ didn’t have to go dungeon-crawling,” Ulfric reminded him. “You could have learned a few useful spells and returned home. But no, you’re gallivanting around Skyrim in the same kind of company that drove your mother to suggest sending you to the College as a way to straighten you out.”

            Bjarni laughed harshly. “And here I told Korir you were capable of coming up with your own ideas.”

            “Pardon me, Jarl Ulfric, but did you just imply that we’re rowdy drunks?” Onmund asked after clearing his throat. “Brelyna is a Dunmer noble. J’zargo is an accomplished mage. _I’m_ the member of a land-holding clan in good standing over in the Pale. None of us have done anything to diminish the honour of our names. Even the trip into Saarthal was to understand and reclaim the lost magical heritage of the Nords.”

            “He’s right,” Jorleif said faintly. “These three are a far cry from the scum of the Grey Quarter.”

            Ulfric could have cheerfully killed the lot of them, but Jorleif was correct. Great House Telvanni could make a lot of trouble for Skyrim in the Velothi Mountains, the Khajiit caravans could relay critical intelligence to the Empire and even the Dominion if so minded, and Clan Broken-Tusk were known for being as long in honour as they were short in coin, which was to say a great deal. “I apologise,” he choked out. “I just don’t appreciate being questioned about how I run _my_ Hold by _my_ own son in _my_ own Great Hall in front of strangers.”

            “So get off your arse and do something,” Bjarni brazenly suggested.

            “Internal security is your mother’s concern,” Ulfric reminded him.

            “So tell her to get off her arse. Killing bandits might work off that temper of hers.” Bjarni folded his rippling arms. “Or take her mind off the glory of Talos for a few days.”

            Ulfric used the meditation techniques taught to by the Greybeards to keep his temper. From the black and white morality of youth, Bjarni was correct. Ulfric had been that naïve and idealistic at the same age. He’d even believed that most people were inherently decent. Elenwen had cured him of that.

            “I will assign a few guards to patrol the roads,” he promised. “But don’t you dare question me or my judgement in front of outsiders again.”

            “I’m getting a lot of ‘don’t do this or don’t ask that’ from you,” Bjarni said softly. “When are you going to give me some fucking credit for knowing what I’m doing?”

            Then the boy stalked out, his friends in tow, before Ulfric could reply.

…

“Mother’s practically frothing at the mouth,” Egil said as he sat down at Bjarni’s table without a by-your-leave in the New Gnisis Cornerclub. “I haven’t seen her that angry since… well… you cast Levitation and nearly gave Grandfather Dengeir a heart attack.”

            “I’m sick of being treated like a child,” Bjarni reminded his brother. “You can’t expect respect and honour from someone without giving it in return.”

            Egil held up a hand. “I know. In this, you’re right. Mother’s frothing but Father’s acting. I’ve been given the task of taking out the trash in Eastmarch. If I succeed, I’ll be given greater powers to act in Father’s name in the other Old Holds. Laila and Skald in particular are reliant on our militia.”

            “Congratulations,” Bjarni said. “You must be proud.”

            “I am. Many of the hereditary franklins and Thanes have been ignoring their responsibilities. It’s time someone reminded them that obligations go both ways.” Egil glanced around the dim, smoky tavern. “How can you abide it here?”

            “Ambarys is pretty vocal about Nords in his tavern but he serves us just the same,” Bjarni said with a smile. “Dunmer also make the best drinks.”

            “You’re incorrigible, Bjarni. I think you like the Dunmer because doing so pisses off our parents.” Egil shrugged. “What you do is your choice. But you can only push things so far before the pushback happens. Shatter-Shield and Cruel-Sea are already muttering you’re not fit to represent Windhelm in any capacity.”

            “Look, I’m aware of the fact you’re going to inherit Windhelm,” Bjarni replied bluntly. “Our parents favour you because you’re the good son who doesn’t ask awkward questions or enjoy the company of awkward people. I don’t hold it against you. But we both have to admit there’s some pretty rank hypocrisy in the way our parents act.”

            “It isn’t so much being the good son as it is knowing when to pick my battles,” Egil said slowly. “I have every intention of making sure the Dunmer and Argonians are treated equally under the law. Stendarr shows mercy to everyone. But until I prove myself, I have to step carefully.”

            That made sense, given Egil’s cautious nature. Bjarni was of more impetuous material, however. “You should start making your own name now,” he suggested as he tossed back a jar of sujamma, enjoying the pleasant burn in his belly. “There’s a freedom in walking your own path.”

            “I hope that comforts you when the Holdmoot gets around to exiling you,” Egil said as he rose to his feet. “You’d better do something spectacular to impress them or they’ll ban you from Windhelm.”

            Bjarni smiled grimly. “You’ll see… Brother. Talos with you.”

            “Stendarr have mercy on you, because the Holdmoot won’t.”

…

Brelyna was waiting for him outside his room in the boarding house down the street. Sadly, there were no amorous intentions involved. “Are you sober?” she asked. “I’m not being insulting, I just have something to tell you, and it’s better delivered when you’re not drunk.”

            Bjarni smiled wryly. “I’ve had three jars of sujamma. Doesn’t do more than warm my belly.”

            “You _have_ learned to drink,” she said dryly. “My record’s five. Then I access Ancestor’s Wrath and set things on fire.”

            “Sounds fun.” Bjarni unlocked the door and they entered the narrow room. It contained a bedframe made of bent branches covered in a straw mattress and worn blankets woven in Dunmer geometric designs. He stayed here when he was too drunk to go home. There was also a table and chair which Brelyna took. He opted for the bed.

            “Brandyl was a goldmine,” she said without preamble. “Do you know he lived in Bruma during the Great War?”

            “I do now,” Bjarni said dryly.

            “Well, I got a surname for that Redguard Irkand and a possible reason why his clan and the Kreathling Jarls hate each other.”

            Bjarni raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

            “Have you ever heard of the Aurelii?”

            “Vaguely. They were Blades, right?”

            “More to the point, they were the ruling clan of the Blades since the Oblivion Crisis, since one of their bastard children became the Hero of Kvatch and assisted Martin Septim in defeating Mehrunes Dagon.” Brelyna poured herself a cup of water. “There were questions about the father of Aurelia Northstar’s son Julius Martin. He was an adept leader, a respected founding member of the Synod, and one of the finest mages in Cyrodiil with a recognised talent for Alteration and Restoration.”

            Bjarni bit his bottom lip. “I’m guessing people thought he might be a Septim.”

            “You’d guess right. He died at the age of ninety, assassinated by the Thalmor. His son Arius succeeded him as Grand Master of the Blades and apparently believed that he was the grandson of Martin…”

            “Oh dear.” Bjarni poured himself some water.

            “That’s a polite way of putting it. Brandyl tells me that when news of the White-Gold Concordat reached Bruma, Arius made a bid for the Ruby Throne. Only his expected reinforcements from Falkreath didn’t arrive when he attacked Fort Pale Pass. Everyone knew that the Kreathling Jarls and the Aurelii had some kind of alliance. They weren’t sure how, but they knew the clans were reportedly close.” Brelyna’s smile was crooked. “Maybe Dengeir realised that Arius was insane.”

            “That would be the pot calling the kettle black,” Bjarni said wryly. “It definitely explains why Irkand’s brother killed Grand-Uncle Balgeir. Redguards mislike betrayal as much as any Nord.”

            “Perhaps. I think there’s more to the tale.” She looked askance at him.

            “Father called the Aurelii ‘a clan of liars and frauds’. If Dengeir believed he’d been lied to about Arius’ ancestry, no wonder he left the Blades to the Thalmor’s untender mercies. Paranoid old shit of a man.” Bjarni shook his head in disgust. “Two of them, apparently.”

            “Brandyl did say Arius was senile. Had enough talent to extend his life but not enough to keep his wits.” Brelyna sighed heavily. “I hope this gives you some context. From what I know of your mother, she’d never admit that her clan did something wrong. Maybe that’s why she hates the Aurelii so much.”

            “And they’d see Mother as a traitor.” Bjarni echoed her sigh. “It’s something. I don’t think it’s all of it, but I don’t want to pursue it at the moment. We need to return to Winterhold and consult with the Augur.”

            “Agreed. Thanks for helping me with Brandyl. He’s such a lovely man.” Brelyna smiled at him and Bjarni’s stomach did an acrobatic routine.

            “Thank you… for everything.” If she’d been in reaching distance, he’d lean in for a kiss. But instead Bjarni stayed where he was and let Brelyna stand to leave the room.

            Nothing in life was ever easy or uncomplicated.


	14. Chapter 10: Return to Winterhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

_“Good intentions have to count for something or the gods would have washed their hands of us years ago.”_

Drevis Neloren

It was a cold clear day when they returned to Winterhold.

            At first glance, the town hadn’t changed much. One street that led to the College bridge, four rather shabby thatched buildings, and a few bored guards in pale blue tabards wandering around in a semblance of patrolling. Malur Seloth sat on a bench outside the inn and pretended to be a Steward. Assur and Eirid ran around, throwing snowberries at each other.

            When Bjarni and his friends entered the Frozen Hearth, he was surprised to see Korir talking animatedly to Ahkari, the other Khajiit of her caravan warming their toes by the hearth. “-So do you think that would work?” the Jarl asked the merchant.

            “If this one could acquire the contract to supply the College, it would work,” Ahkari replied. “Winterhold is placed well for the fur trade and Ri’saad has a source of silk-wool, or something very close to it, in the south of Skyrim. But we would need something dependable to convince the other caravan leaders to come here.”

            “At the moment, the College sends whoever’s available to Windhelm to buy up stocks of preserved meats, cheese and hardtack when we run out of food.” That was Enthir, the Bosmer who was the source of all things questionable within the College. “If you could set up a direct route between us and Whiterun, we could put the extra coin to better use, and give you a discount on our services.”

            “Hmm. My caravan runs the north and east routes in Skyrim. Ma’dran handles south and west while Ri’saad is responsible for the Whiterun to Solitude caravan,” Ahkari mused. “Much of the Skyrim trade runs on barter instead of gold. Even at half-value, the College could trade enchanted goods for a considerable amount of food staples from Whiterun, and better stuff than that wretched hardtack they make in Windhelm. A beggar would turn their nose up at it.”

            Korir sighed wistfully. “I wish I could afford the good stuff.”

            Bjarni found a grin. “You know, isn’t a Jarl entitled to ten percent of any trade agreement worth a hundred septims or more?”

            “You wicked boy,” Ahkari chided him as the Jarl of Winterhold laughed. “Now this one will have to explain to Ri’saad why she must include ten percent in the costs of travel.”

            He made a rude Khajiit noise. “The old man will make it up in Whiterun and Solitude when he starts selling little enchanted goods like detangling combs and ever-sharp razors. They’re vain – and rich – in those cities.”

            Enthir was rubbing his hands. “You lot should be learning how to enchant,” the Bosmer agreed with a grin. “You just need petty souls for those and it’s a good way to improve your skills.”

            Ahkari hissed admonishingly. “You have learned too much. Bjarni. How can we make a profit if you share our secrets with your Nord friends?”

            Bjarni made another rude noise. “I haven’t shared anything. I just reminded Jarl Korir of his rights.”

            “It would reduce my reliance on Eastmarch’s goodwill,” Korir admitted quietly. “Not that I’ve a problem with your father, Bjarni. It’s your mother who likes to remind me the debts I owe.”

            “My mother isn’t as acquainted with honour as she’d like to think,” he replied grimly. “But… that’s family business. I take it things are going well in my absence?”

            Korir smiled a little. “Onmund’s kin have given me their allegiance. My first franklins since Thorgar over at Whistling Mine! We’re clearing some of the old ruins and Ragnar tells me he can build a substantial shelter from bone, horker-hide and snow, of all things.”

            Onmund grinned. “It’s based on the traditional hunting shelters of the Skaal on Solstheim. My father’s mother came from there. They set up the oiled horker hide and ivory like a tent and layer snow around it. Tight but cosy.”

            “Huh. Well, they got sick of Skald badmouthing you for being a mage after you rid Dawnstar of those nightmares. He won’t notice the loss but I’m grateful they chose me as their new Jarl.” Korir smiled crookedly. “We have a regular food source now. We might even be able to trade.”

            “Horker meat and ivory sell well in Whiterun and the Rift,” Ahkari assured him. “Even if Khajiit takes ten percent for facilitating trade, Winterhold will gain much in the way of green things and grain. You eat too much meat. It gives you the bleeding gum sickness.”

            “I didn’t know that until you told me,” Korir admitted. “Ten percent, eh?”

            “Khajiit must take some small fee for extra work,” Ahkari pointed out.

            “If it were up to me, I’d just say let’s keep our ten percent and trade normally,” Korir said. “But a tax is owed and I have to go through the whole rigmarole for recording purposes.”

            Ahkari tsked. “We could just do that and sign appropriate paperwork. This is not Solitude where the Cyrods watch every transaction with a greedy eye.”

            Korir grinned crookedly. “I should make you my Steward.”

            “Khajiit is honest merchant instead of dishonest Steward,” Ahkari protested mildly. “Your Steward asked me to acquire a staff for him so he could continue his charade of being part of the College.”

            “Me too,” Enthir confirmed.

            Korir frowned. “I see. If I dismiss him, I’ll need a new Steward.”

            “Why not Birna?” suggested Haran from the counter. “If she’s your Steward, Ranmir would have to take over the shop and it might give him something to do other than drink.”

            “Kraldar would be better,” Dagur pointed out. “He’s of noble blood.”

            “Noble blood doesn’t grant you any kind of competency,” Bjarni said sourly. “Kraldar’s not a bad man, but he’s a little too friendly with the Empire for our comfort.”

            “I’ll ask Birna,” Korir finally said. “Malur can do some work or leave.”

            He nodded at the others. “I’ll speak to later tonight. Bjarni, are you free? We need to talk.”

            Bjarni blinked and nodded. “Yes, Jarl.”

            He followed Korir to the Jarl’s longhouse, which was lit with more tallow candles and even a couple crude horker fat lamps. The Jarl poured them both some mead before taking a seat, gesturing to Bjarni to do the same.

            “You could have very easily made yourself Jarl here,” Korir said as he sipped from his dented silver goblet. “You’re young, charismatic and a born leader. A public duel and you could have sent me, Thaena and Assur packing. You could have faced your parents as something akin to an equal with a vote on the Moot. Why didn’t you?”

            “I came here to study,” Bjarni told him honestly. “Turned out it was my mother’s idea after all.”

            Korir snorted. “Of course it was. Your father’s a tough man and a good leader, but in many ways he’s still the naïve Greybeard who went to war against the Dominion. Your mother’s the driving force in Eastmarch. Ulfric can make men love him. Sigdrifa can only inspire reluctant respect. They need each other and we need them both to free ourselves from the Empire.”

            The Jarl sipped some more mead. “I want to make you Thane. If anything goes wrong, I need to know that someone’s in place to take the Winter Throne. Assur’s too young and as much as I love Thaena, she’s not Jarl material.”

            Bjarni pursed his lips. “In all fairness, I should tell you that I’m on thin ice with my parents. I’m too friendly with outsiders, I don’t follow orders and I ask too many questions. Egil tells me the Holdmoot might even exile me.”

            “A Thane has diplomatic immunity in all nine Holds,” Korir replied. “You’ve done services for Winterhold and brought trade to us. If you don’t want the title, I understand. It’s not very prestigious…”

            “I’ll take it,” Bjarni said. “I… should warn you. There’s a dangerous artefact at the College. We don’t know what it is, but I’ve been warned by both the Harbinger and the Psijic Monks that it needs to be dealt with. If I send someone across the bridge with the order to evacuate, take your people to Whistling Mine and stay there until we give the all clear.”

            Korir’s eyes narrowed. “How long have you known about this?”

            “Since Saarthal, but I didn’t get more concrete information until recently. This might be the reason why the Falmer massacred the Atmorans; it’s big, it’s Aedric and it radiates magicka.  We found it by accident and so far, we’ve managed to contain it.” Bjarni sighed. “But no ward lasts forever and we’ve got a Thalmor who’d love to cause trouble at the College.”

            Korir’s mouth tightened. “I see what you mean. I’m not a mage and I’m still not sure how far I can trust the College. But I trust _you_ , Bjarni Ulfricsson. I will trust my Thane will warn me in time to evacuate the people.”

            “Thank you,” Bjarni said gratefully. “Outside the College, you’re the first person to give me some fucking credit.”

            “You may not have hunted an ice wraith but you’ve proven yourself a man,” Korir said simply. “Now come. I need to find you a Thane’s badge of office.”

…

Savos Aren took a deep breath as the apprentices entered the Hall of the Elements. They’d grown – not in stature but experience. Bjarni led the procession, wearing fine scaled armour and a truly magnificent snowy bearskin cloak pinned with an enamelled brooch depicting the Winter Crown of Winterhold. So the young man had been made Thane. That was good for the College.

            “Arch-Mage,” Bjarni rumbled. “We, ah, apologise for the late return but…”

            Savos smiled wryly. “You’re young and you decided to do some exploring. I’m impressed you managed to acquire all three pieces of the Gauldur Amulet and resisted the lure of Vaermina.”

            Brelyna’s scarlet eyes widened. “You’ve been scrying us!”

            “Of course. If you were truly in danger, I would have dispatched Nirya or Enthir to extract you.” Savos turned towards the Eye. “Tolfdir’s read _Night of Tears_ and can make some educated guesses about the orb.”

            Bjarni listened to Tolfdir for a few minutes before saying, “Quaranir said I should consult with the Augur of Dunlain. Who or what is that?”

            Savos sucked in a sharp breath. Whatever the Augur had been, now it was an advisor to the senior faculty, one they kept hidden from outsiders and apprentices.

            “He was an apprentice who had an accident… Given his oracular abilities, I suspect it involved Conjuration,” Tolfdir replied, used to answering apprentices’ questions. “He now lives in the Midden below the College, deep in the darkest section of it.”

            “Of course he does,” Bjarni said sarcastically. “These oracles can never live in the light of day.”

            “Actually, there’s an oracular priestess of Azura who lives in a camp at the foot of that big statue not too far from here,” Onmund offered. “Though she only technically emerges at dawn and dusk.”

            “Of course she does,” Bjarni said. “No noontide prophets for us.”

            He rubbed his eyes. “The Augur’s waited until this long. He can damn well wait until the morning. If there’s nothing else, I’m going to bed.”

            The young Nord took himself off and Tolfdir raised an eyebrow. “What’s on him?” he asked Brelyna.

            She bit her lip. “He’s having trouble with his family. Ulfric and Sigdrifa wanted him here learning battle spells and killing Thalmor agents without regard for the faculty or their relatives.”

            Savos didn’t need scrying to know she wasn’t telling half the story but he nodded in understanding. “It must be a hard thing to face parental disapproval. He reminds me of myself when I was young. My family wanted me to attend Arcane University but I chose to come here instead.”

            “The wiser choice in the long run,” Tolfdir observed. “Well, I’ll see you all in the morning.”

            Everyone scattered for their quarters, but Savos Aren stood in the Hall of the Elements, watching the Eye of Magnus. Then he sighed and turned for his own quarters. He needed to ready Bjarni for the arduous journey and ordeal that was Labyrinthian sooner than he realised or hoped.


	15. Chapter 11: Divination and Its Place in Nordic Sorcery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Taking some liberties with still making. Trigger warning for death, violence and mentions of torture.

 

_“Divination is the most uncertain magic of them all. Every choice we make alters the future… or brings it closer to fruition. One day, a High King of Skyrim will die and leave his country in chaos, which will open the doors to the return of Alduin World-Eater. It is my very great fear that it will be our father who unlocks the gates of Oblivion on that day.”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson to his brother Egil Ulfricsson

The Midden was what the unpleasant name promised. Frozen, infested with the haunted skeletons of those who drowned in the Great Collapse and littered with the detritus of five thousand years. They found some kind of magical apparatus and a hand of ebony carved with the Oblivion Eye, the fate of its creators detailed in a report left on the nearby table as deterrent. J’zargo, predictably, picked the report and pocketed it for later. “Why _are_ you so obsessed with becoming a master of Destruction magic?” Bjarni asked with some exasperation.

            “J’zargo must be the best at what he does, for life has taught him that to be otherwise is unfortunate,” the Khajiit replied mildly. “Not all of us are born to wealthy or even loving parents.”

            “If you wanted to be rich, you’ve picked the wrong trade,” Bjarni said wryly, newly broke after more Illusion lessons from Drevis this morning.

            “J’zargo does not wish to be rich. J’zargo wishes to be _safe_ ,” he corrected. “But this one understands that you do not understand.”

            “You might be surprised,” Brelyna said softly. “Life in Morrowind’s still uncertain, even for the nobility.”

            “Yes, but power is a shield of sorts. J’zargo has no wealth nor parents, so J’zargo must create his own power.” The Khajiit smiled slightly. “Of course, all of you are losing so badly that you cannot see it.”

            “It’s never been a contest for me,” Bjarni admitted. “Now have fun on your own time, not mine. Or rather the Augur’s.”

            J’zargo snorted and they went deeper into the Midden.

            Bjarni did pick some of the interesting fungi down here. It was something of a mystery why the College had its own dedicated enchanter but not a master alchemist. Both disciplines fed into Alteration and Restoration, after all.

            The Augur was behind a locked wooden door, little more than a starburst of blue energy. The door swung open when Bjarni tried the lock, allowing them entrance into the small room.

            “You are too late,” the Augur said in sibilant whispers. “The Thalmor Ancano has already come and received the answers he craved. Events spiral towards the inevitable conclusion. The Eye will open whether you will or not.”

            Bjarni took a deep breath. “What is opened can be closed. How can I do that?”

            “The Staff of Magnus,” whispered the Augur. “Hurry and you may yet save your world.”

            They found themselves outside the locked door. “’Save our world’?” Onmund asked in a shaky voice.

            “The Priests of Talos claim that the Thalmor want to destroy Talos, the god of men, so they can destroy the world,” Bjarni said, his voice no steadier. “That’s why they made the Empire ban His worship.”

            “If the Eye’s that powerful…” Brelyna shuddered. “We better talk to Savos.”

            Savos was waiting for them in the Hall of the Elements. “What did the Augur have to say?” he asked.

            “We need to find the Staff of Magnus,” Bjarni said urgently. “That will close the Eye and save the world. Can we please just throw Ancano off the bridge _now_ before he manages to open it?”

            Savos sighed. “You’ll need more than the word of a dead apprentice to justify his execution, Bjarni. Talk to Mirabelle. She mentioned the Staff a few weeks ago, so she might have an idea.”

            Bjarni throttled down his frustration. “Ancano means to use the Eye to end the world like the Thalmor want!”

            “I know. But he hasn’t figured it out yet. I’ll be keeping a full watch on the Eye at all times.” Savos met his gaze pityingly. “When you act, Bjarni, you must be certain – or more innocents than you can comprehend will suffer the consequences.”

            Bjarni waved his hand at the Arch-Mage and went looking for Mirabelle.

            “The Staff of Magnus? It’s mythical,” Mirabelle said when he asked about it. “Though now you mention it, we had some Synod mages sniffing around the College in search of it. We sent them packing for the ruins of Mzulft. Here’s to hoping the automatons and Falmer get rid of the nosy parkers.”

            “Gah!” Bjarni walked out off her office in the Hall of Countenance and went upstairs to the little smithy attached to the senior faculty’s quarters. He needed to beat something and sadly, Ancano wasn’t an option.

            Thanks to Ralof and the Lexicon of Avanchnzel, he knew the basics of smithing, and there were enough materials to make what he needed. Dwemer copper ingots worked best, and thanks to their recent adventures in Avanchnzel, they’d brought back plenty. Bjarni flattened three ingots into a thin sheet that he rounded and joined together, then formed the head of the alembic with a copper disk on a lathe. Pipes and the condenser followed, judicious use of Flames soldering the metal together when needed, and then he used a cloth to polish everything to a soft golden gleam.

            Give him some yams, snowberries and a few weeks, and he could make his own type of sujamma.

            He was setting up the still in the disused storeroom on the second level of the Hall of Attainment when Enthir wandered in. “I was wondering when you’d get around to putting one of those in,” the Bosmer drawled. “I hear you went into the Midden today.”

            “Yes,” Bjarni said, screwing in a pipe. “I need to find the Staff of Magnus. Don’t suppose you’ve got it in your wares?”

            “Sadly, no. If anyone knows where it is, it’ll be those Synod idiots who went off to Mzulft.”

            “So where the fuck is that? Mirabelle didn’t tell me shit.”

            Enthir raised an eyebrow. “It’s in the Velothi Mountains, a little south and east of Windhelm.”

            Bjarni sighed in relief. “I appreciate it, Enthir. I don’t think Mirabelle likes me.”

            “She doesn’t like anyone who doesn’t focus wholly and solely on magic,” Enthir drawled. “I was a thief before I got into sorcery and even now, I maintain some of my old contacts.”

            Bjarni smirked. “The only difference between a thief and a raider is that one steals your things without you knowing and the other bashes your head or door in before taking your stuff.”

            “There’s a few bandits who do that. If they’re wearing a tabard, we call them the Hold guard.”

            Bjarni snickered. “If they’re wearing a red cloak and carrying a sheaf of papers, they’re the Imperial tax collector!”

            Enthir laughed uproariously. “You’d fit right into the Guild! If you ever get bored of magic or just want to expand your horizons, go down to Riften and give Brynjolf my regards. Red-haired Reacher with the accent. Don’t let the hick act fool you, he’s smart as a whip.”

            “He nearly gulled Onmund into buying some of his Falmer Blood Elixir,” Bjarni said wryly as he set the still upright. “Took it better than I thought when we hauled Onmund out there.”

            “Some become thieves because they’re mean arseholes who like to take other people’s things. Brynjolf joined the Guild because it was a choice between gutting fish or planting cabbages for honest work. He’s one of the Markarth orphans, you know.”

            Bjarni had the grace to wince.

            “Yeah,” Enthir drawled. “Well, now we’ve got a still…”

            “Touch it and I’ll kill you,” Bjarni said bluntly. “This is for sujamma.”

            “I thought you were trying to impress Brelyna,” the Bosmer observed. “You can really distil it?”

            “Yeah. I make a version with snowberries.”

            “I’d give that a try. Gods know Colette’s enough to drive a man or mer to drink.” Enthir nodded. “You better round up your posse and get to Mzulft. Ancano’s been sniffing around the Eye and I’ll be damned before I give that mongrel any satisfaction.”

            “I’m this close to performing the Black Sacrament to have that bastard killed,” Bjarni said grimly.

            “Do that and my family gets strangled in Valenwood,” Enthir replied just as grimly. “Elenwen doesn’t mess around. Her father was Naarifin.”

            “My father was acquainted with her in the Great War. The little he’s told me…” Bjarni shuddered.

            “Yeah. Nice little family she’s from. The husband was the one who butchered most of the worshippers in the Great Chapel of Talos in Bruma. Their son’s a sadistic little cunt who’s going to wind up sprouting arrows if they don’t get him out of Valenwood soon, reprisal or not.”

            “One day, the Thalmor will be purged from Tamriel,” Bjarni said quietly, fiercely. “But first, we must start with Ancano. Thanks again, Enthir.”

            “No worries,” the Bosmer said. “Just bring me back anything good that you find.”

…

They avoided Windhelm and stuck to the Velothi foothills, eventually finding Mzulft in the little valley near Cragslane Cavern. There was a dying Synod researcher just outside and he must have mistaken them for reinforcements, because he muttered ‘crystal’ with his dying breath. His research log gave them more information and a key.

            Avanchnzel was a piece of cake compared to Mzulft. Not only did the place have more clockwork automatons than a convention of Dwemer enthusiasts, it had fucking Falmer, their pet frostbite spiders, and _big fucking bug-things_ that spat venom. Bjarni was mortally glad that he’d stocked up on mudcrab-and-skeever potions. They tasted like shit burned on a seaweed fire but they cured any sickness or poison short of death. They mostly snuck around, cast Fury or Frenzy on the fuckers, then killed the survivors with Chain Lightning, Firebolts and Ice Spike.

            The series of dead Synod researchers and a complete lack of guards told its own story of incompetency. The apprentices looted them without compunction, piling the corpses together and giving them a reasonable semblance of a pyre. Maybe the cooked meat would keep the Falmer busy.

            They eventually got the focusing crystal. It appears the Synod researchers didn’t take the cold of Skyrim into account and the previous one warped or cracked somehow. “And these mages think they are the successors to the Mages’ Guild,” J’zargo said disgustedly. “This one could not wait to leave them.”

            Their next problem was the lone surviving Synod mage, a man named Paratus. He was disgusted to be rescued by College mages, more disgusted that they’d brought the focusing crystal to him, and utterly disgusted to discover that their leader was the son of a rebellious Jarl. By the time they’d added the focusing crystal and aligned the mirrors, he was puce with rage.

            A map of Skyrim, picked out in starlight, appeared on the far wall. Nothing could be seen but a burst of energy at – you guessed it – Winterhold. Paratus went off, accusing them of sabotaging his experiment, until Bjarni cast Calm on the man. “Where is the Staff of Magnus?” he grated. “I don’t have time to humour your pathetic Cyrod ego.”

            “I’d do what he says,” Brelyna said cheerily from the side. “He hasn’t blood-eagled a Cyrod in months and he’s getting bored.”

            “J’zargo has heard it is very painful,” the Khajiit said with a big toothy grin. “It involves lungs being removed from your body. While you’re alive. And he is very good at Restoration.”

            “Labyrinthian,” Paratus said after pissing himself. “It’s at Labyrinthian.”

            “Where the fuck’s that?” Bjarni demanded.

            “It’s Bromjunaar,” Onmund said quietly.

            “Oh. Lovely. The Dragon Priests’ city.” Bjarni pushed past Paratus. “Let’s go. We have no time to waste.”

            Right on cue, Quaranir was waiting for them in the next room. “You need to hurry,” the Psijic urged. “Ancano has opened the Eye.”

            “Why the fuck didn’t you just tell me about the Staff of fucking Magnus five fucking weeks ago?” Bjarni demanded.

            “Because you weren’t ready, none of you,” Quaranir countered. “Besides, perhaps that question would be better asked of Savos Aren.”

            Bjarni used the one Altmer phrase he knew, the one that he’d been assured by his teacher was so vile it insulted the target back through the generations to the Merethic Era.

            “My cheese is full of snowflakes?” Quaranir asked, brow wrinkled.

            Onmund and Brelyna had the tact to try and stifle their laughter with their hands. J’zargo didn’t bother.

            “Bah!” Bjarni stalked towards the door. They had an Eye to close and answers to get from Savos.


	16. Chapter 12: Labyrinthian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Playing a bit with the final bit of ‘Revealing the Unseen’ and ‘Containment’.

 

_“Labyrinthian is one of those places no sane person goes. As Shalidor proved, the line between genius and madness is thinner than a Breton beggar.”_

Bjarni Ulfricsson, _The Nord’s Guide to Practical Magic_

They were fortunate to meet up with Ahkari’s caravan on the way back to Winterhold and the Khajiit happily took the spoils of Mzulft off their hands in return for rations, soul gems, potions. scrolls and a nice set of earrings for J’zargo that boosted Destruction spells. Bjarni railed inwardly at the delay but he also knew that they couldn’t hurry home with a load of enchanted arms and armour.

            They caught the ferry at Windhelm and Bjarni dozed a little in the boat, worn down by the demands of the past few days. His new snow bear cloak, his Thane’s badge of office, was warm and apparently enchanted against magic. Useful when it came to confronting Ancano.

            The ferryman let them off at the docks in the grey light of early morning and they trudged up the hill. “Onmund,” Bjarni ordered. “Wake Jarl Korir and get him to evacuate everyone to Whistling Mine.”

            “Are you sure?” Onmund asked.

            “I have a bad feeling about this. If Ancano’s opened the Eye, only the gods know what will happen. You saw that map at Mzulft.”

            The plain-faced Nord bolted for the Jarl’s longhouse. Everyone else crossed the bridge.

            “Did you find what you were looking for at Mzulft?” Faralda asked near the courtyard gates.

            “Faralda, have Colette and Tolfdir evacuate the non-fighter members of the College to Whistling Mine,” Bjarni commanded by way of reply. “I want you, Arniel and Urag to station yourselves in Winterhold proper. Where’s Savos and Mirabelle?”

            “His quarters having breakfast. Bjarni, what’s going on?” the Destruction Master asked.

            “Ancano has gained or will gain access to the Eye soon. Onmund’s evacuating Winterhold. Things are about to get very bad and we’ll have no choice but to hold until someone can get to Labyrinthian and find the Staff of Magnus.”

            “I’ll keep Tolfdir on my squad then. He’s our Master of Warding.” Faralda sketched a salute and ran for the Hall of Countenance.

            Savos and Mirabelle were eating breakfast when Bjarni, Brelyna and J’zargo barged in. “Why in the name of Talos didn’t you tell me the Staff of Magnus was at Labyrinthian?” Bjarni roared. “The Eye’s opening – or will soon enough – and it’s the only thing that can close it!”

            “Apprentice, compose yourself!” Mirabelle snapped. “What’s this nonsense about the Eye-?”

            “Mirabelle, enough.” Savos’ voice was quiet and firm. “Find Ancano. Detain him.”

            The Breton blanched. “Arch-Mage-“

            “Do it!” the Dunmer snapped. “What we’ve feared is coming to pass. There’s no time to waste.”

            “J’zargo, Brelyna, go with her,” Bjarni commanded. “Use lethal force if you must.”

            The two apprentices nodded and followed the Master Wizard out of the Arch-Mage’s quarters.

            Savos held up his hand as Bjarni took a deep breath. “I didn’t tell you because I was hoping we had more time, lad. But we don’t and I won’t waste your time with most of my reasons.”

            The Arch-Mage removed the iron torc he always wore around his neck. “This is the door-handle to Labyrinthian. A simple but effective means of keeping innocents out of that terrible place.”

            “Labyrinthian was once called Bromjunaar,” Bjarni told him, accepting the torc. “It was where the Dragon Priests met, possibly a capital of Skyrim.”

            “Yes,” Savos said softly. “Me and a group of friends not unlike yours didn’t know that when we explored the place. Most of them died in the traps or by the undead dragon or sealing the Dragon Priest Morokei in place. I survived because I fled.”

            He held up his hand again as Bjarni opened his mouth. “Yes, it was cowardly, and yes I’ve lived with it all my life. But until you four apprentices came to Winterhold, I didn’t think there was anyone capable of putting Morokei to rest. I didn’t know of the Labyrinthian staff’s connection to the Eye, so I was trying to let you get more experience as mages and a team before sending you there.”

            Bjarni shut his mouth. That was reasoning he could understand.

            Savos nodded. “You understand. I thought you might.”

            The Dunmer rose to his feet. “There are defences keyed to the Arch-Mage I can activate. That will buy you all the time you need, I hope.”

            They descended the stairs to the Hall of the Elements where Mirabelle, J’zargo and Brelyna waited. Just past the gates was a solid wall of energy, wavering like a Ward, and Ancano was within it next to the Eye. “We can’t break through!” Mirabelle yelled.

            “Fall back, all of you,” Savos ordered. “Fall back across the bridge to Winterhold. _Now_.”

            “Savos-“

            “Mirabelle, I have no choice. Go.”

            “Boethiah give you the strength to act,” Bjarni said, using the old Dunmer blessing.

            “They will.” Savos turned towards the Ward, his hands glowing.

            They were at the end of the bridge when it dissolved. If not for Mirabelle’s quick use of Telekinesis, J’zargo would have gone splat in the chasm below.

            “He’s closed off the College,” she said tonelessly. “He won’t survive holding the protections for that long.”

            “Then we better make every minute count,” Bjarni grated. “Who should go to Labyrinthian?”

            Mirabelle regarded him with surprise. “Why you and your friends. Who else could end this?”

            Who else indeed.

            Winterhold was a ghost town when they entered and Faralda’s squad were fighting off some kind of magical sprites. Mirabelle and the rest waded in and soon the sprites were dead. “Fall back to Whistling Mine,” the Master Wizard ordered.

            Whistling Mine was crowded and Korir pushed through the throngs of people. “What’s going on?” the Jarl demanded.

            “That which I feared is coming to pass,” Bjarni replied. “We need to get to Labyrinthian over in Hjaalmarch to get the key to that fucking orb.”

            “We’ll hold Wards in shifts,” Faralda promised. “The College has… safeguards. If the worst comes to worst, Tolfdir can stop the mine from shaking apart.”

            “You might have a nice new harbour though,” the Alteration Master said dryly.

            Korir ran his hand over his face. “I thought there was hope for Winterhold.”

            “There is,” Bjarni said. “Start praying. To Talos, Kyne, Shor, Jhunal… Hell, even Akatosh. We’re going to need all of the Nine to help us.”

            Korir nodded. “That I can do. I’m no priest, but Talos is the god of kings… and at the end of the day, the Jarl is a king. He’ll listen to me or find Himself without a worshipper when He needs all the ones he can get.”

            Bjarni bowed. “As you see fit, Jarl. We need to get going-“

            “Talos with you.”

            “And you.”

…

Their first obstacle was frost trolls. After downing enough stamina potions to make them rue ever being born, the four made their way through the Pale and to Labyrinthian. J’zargo’s fireballs drove away the beasts and Bjarni fitted the torc to the door. It fit perfectly and opened at a touch.

            There were draugr galore, the ghosts of Savos and his friends, and even a reanimated dragon skeleton. They drank more healing and magicka potions in those three hours than they had at either Geirmund’s Hall or Mzulft. But they passed through with little more than minor wounds.

            Morokei addressed them in Dovahzul before sapping their magicka. “Must I switch to your guttural tongue?” the Dragon Priest finally demanded. “Why do you not answer, Savos?”

            “Because I’m not Savos!” Bjarni snapped. “I am Bjarni Ulfricsson, son of the Jarl of Windhelm, Thane of Winterhold and Mage of the College. You have a staff we need very dearly to stop _another_ elf from ending the world.”

            Morokei’s chuckle was a grotesque thing. “They still try?”

            “Some do. This one’s got his hands on the Eye of Magnus… The orb for which the Falmer slew the Atmorans of Saarthal.”

            They battled through a few more draugr before Morokei spoke again. “You are certain?”

            “As certain as a man can be after a few thousand years. It makes more sense than the Falmer suddenly deciding on annihilation as a species by slaughtering our kin.” Bjarni leaned against the wall and caught his breath.

            “You want only the staff? Not my mask or the Word of Power or anything else?”

            “Only the staff. Stop sending your draugr after me and mine or we’ll take it all regardless.”

            Morokei gave an ugly chuckle. “I sense the truth in your words. Have the dragons returned?”

            “Not yet. Give us the staff and you’ll be around to see it.”

            The doors nearest to them opened. “Come and fetch it.”

            Savos had enthralled the last two of his friends in something Brelyna called ‘lichdom’ to bind Morokei in place. “I don’t like the idea of leaving that thing here,” Onmund muttered. “Dragon Priests are evil.”

            “Ancano’s the bigger threat,” Bjarni replied.

            Morokei hovered on a platform across from them. “You may have the staff in return for a life,” the Dragon Priest said conversationally. “Otherwise, you will have to-“

            Bjarni didn’t even bother letting him finish the sentence. He wasn’t sacrificing anyone. So he read out a Scroll of Fireball, launching an attack at the Dragon Priest, who laughed.

            “Foolish boy! I will have your life for this!”

            Morokei flung lightning at Bjarni, sapping his magicka and leaving spidery burns on his skin, but the young Nord pressed forward. Onmund was throwing… sunfire? It was the only way to describe the golden balls of light that the other Nord was throwing at Morokei. J’zargo and Brelyna had their hands full with the lich mages.

            “Has the magic of the Atmorans grown so weak?” Morokei asked amusedly as he hovered out of reach.

            “Nah,” Bjarni said with a grin. “We’ve learned a few new tricks since you ruled in Skyrim.”

            He gathered what was left of his magicka and flung it at Morokei with a heartfelt prayer to Jhunal, the old god of magic.

            The Fear spell hit Morokei and he flinched, stopping the lightning attacks for a heartbeat. That was enough time for Onmund, Brelyna and J’zargo to unleash their powers on the Dragon Priest.

            He glowed for a moment against the magic and then crumbled into dust, leaving only his mask and the Staff of Magnus.

            Bjarni limped over to the ash pile and picked up the Staff, leaning on it. Onmund snagged the mask. The College better hang on to it.

            “Hope the bastard had some good funeral offerings,” he said weakly.

            He did in a chest nearby. They were leaving the tomb by the back way when an Altmer in Thalmor robes stepped out of an alcove. “It’s nothing personal,” he said, hands glowing. “But we’re all nearly free of the world. I can’t let you return to Winterhold.”

            “J’zargo says ‘just say what’,” the Khajiit said.

            “What?” The Altmer’s head exploded.

            Everyone looked at J’zargo and he smirked. “This one has been studying Alteration. A little Telekinesis in one hand, a frost spell in the other, and the Thalmor has no more head.”

            “I’m so fucking glad you’re on our side,” Bjarni said wearily.

            “So is J’zargo. You are occasionally useful.” The Khajiit grinned. “Even if you’ll never beat me.”

            “Let’s finish this,” Bjarni rasped. “Nothing or no one will stop me from destroying Ancano.”

            “We wouldn’t dream of it,” Brelyna said. “Let’s go.”


	17. Chapter 13: The Eye of Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I treat stamina potions as kinda like being energy drinks loaded with caffeine, so be warned. Totally ripping off the Havamal as well.

 

It was too long a walk from Labyrinthian to Whiterun, the nearest carriage stop, and they’d drained most of their potions. Bjarni’s heart was pounding like a drum, he needed to piss badly, and he couldn’t shake the anxiety that he’d fail at this. But their grace depended on the stamina of Savos Aren and the Dunmer wasn’t young by any means. They had to push on regardless of their exhaustion.

            They made the carriage that was going to Dawnstar via Windhelm and Winterhold. Bjarni dumped a few enchanted pieces of jewellery in the driver’s hand and mumbled something about going straight to Whistling Mine. Maybe. His brain was mush and his eyes were watering from fatigue.

            The journey itself was a blur. Bjarni might have slept. He didn’t know. The others looked as bad as he felt, robes burned and torn, half-healed injuries on visible flesh. Bjarni’s arms and legs bore the thin wandering burns from the staff he clutched in a death-grip, burns that would become scars. There was only so much healing potions could fix.

            “We’re here,” the driver said after a timeless period of blankness. Bjarni opened gummy eyes as Brelyna shook his shoulder.

            They gave the driver a couple more pieces of jewellery and he set off for Dawnstar, probably richer than he’d ever been in his life. Arniel Gane was guarding the entrance and he called for Colette and Tolfdir as the apprentices stumbled towards the mine.

            The Restoration and Alteration Masters had a quick, urgent conference in whispers as hands lowered Bjarni to the ground. “-Overdose on stamina potions,” Colette was telling Tolfdir. “We need to purge them before anything else.”

            Before the other mage could say anything, the tiny Breton was pressing vials into their hands. “Drink this,” she ordered brusquely, a departure from her usual whiny tones.

            It was charred skeever skin and mudcrab chitin. Of course. Bjarni choked the acrid potion down and endured the nausea for as long as he could before puking everything, including the memory of food, from his stomach. He was retching weakly when Colette made him drink another vial and then-

            He woke up, staring at the mine ceiling, his stomach rumbling at the smell of gruel. “Eat,” Haran ordered when he sat up, thrusting a bowl at him. “The other mages are getting ready to take on Ancano.”

            “How long did I sleep?” he rasped. The gruel tasted like wheat and blue mountain flowers.

            “A few hours. Tolfdir did something that compresses sleep. He had to do it. You nearly fell facedown into Korir’s lap.”

            He finished the gruel in record time and wrapped his snow bear cloak around himself before joining the mages outside. Korir was holding his sleeping son, his wife beside him, and they both whispered prayers to the gods. The other inhabitants of Winterhold huddled together, hope and fear in their eyes.

            “Nice of you to join us,” J’zargo said dryly as Bjarni stumbled outside. “Isn’t it a lovely day to kill Thalmor?”

            “Any day’s a lovely day to kill Thalmor,” Bjarni replied hoarsely.

            “True.” The Khajiit nodded to Mirabelle. “We better listen.”

            “I’ll activate the bridge and then deactivate it once we’re across,” the Master Wizard said. “When we reach the Hall of the Elements, we’ll use the Staff of Magnus to break the Ward. That is its greatest power – to absorb magic.”

            “Fantastic,” Bjarni said, leaning on said Staff. It was bronze and tipped with sea-green crystals at top and bottom. “Then what?”

            “We try to absorb the Eye’s magicka, shut it down and eliminate Ancano,” Mirabelle responded.

            “I hope you’re not attached to it,” Urag said to Bjarni. “According to the legends, the Staff responds best to Alterationists.”

            Bjarni offered the Staff to Tolfdir. “Here you go, old boy. Fate of the world’s in your hands.”

            “I’m filled with confidence due to your encouraging words,” the old Nord replied dryly. He glanced at Mirabelle. “No time like now.”

            They were met in Winterhold by Quaranir, who was actually present in the flesh. “Well done,” the Psijic said. “We have an interest in preventing Ancano from succeeding. His intentions are well-meaning, but all he’ll do if he succeeds is damn us to Oblivion as Daedra.”

            “Huh?” Enthir said eloquently.

            “We all have the immortal souls of trapped Aedra,” the Psijic said simply. “But as spirits touched by Oblivion became the Daedra, so to the souls of those who die under the burden of great negativity. The Psijic Order exists to guide spirits back to the timeless immortality Lorkhan stole from us, but only with wisdom and restraint. You can’t drag someone kicking and screaming to enlightenment, after all.”

            “Pontificating s’wit,” Brelyna muttered.

            Bjarni was inclined to agree with her. “So let’s get to it, Quaranir. Every second we delay…”

            Mirabelle led them to the bridge gate. She raised her hands and lowered them, the bridge shimmering back into existence. They trooped across the bridge and Bjarni heard prayers being muttered over the roar of the chasm below.

            Inside the courtyard, Tolfdir took point with Quaranir and Mirabelle at each shoulder. “Form a wedge!” he yelled. “And _push_!”

            They pushed against the resistance in the very air, Tolfdir pointing the Staff of Magnus in front of him, until they reached the doors. Mirabelle shouted a word and they opened, revealing the crumpled form of Savos Aren. Bjarni didn’t need to be a Priest of Arkay to know the Arch-Mage was dead.

            “Do you think that toy will stop me from achieving the goal my people have sought for centuries?” Ancano asked conversationally. “I’m doing this for everyone, you know. You’d _think_ some people would show a little gratitude.”

            “You will drive many souls into Oblivion,” Quaranir said gravely. “Stop this, Ancano.”

            Tolfdir held up the Staff and slammed it to the ground. The Ward shattered like broken glass and the Thalmor agent screamed.

            “If you don’t stop this,” the old mage said grimly, “You will be stopped.”

            Ancano reached out his right hand and lightning connected him to the Eye. “By the time I’m done, the very idea of humanity will be erased from the possibilities of the world and we will be gods once more!”

            The Eye opened and unleashed more of the sprites. They were nothing and Ancano was everything. “I am beyond your pitiful attempts at sorcery!” he crowed.

            “You aren’t beyond the power of this!” Tolfdir pointed the Staff at the Eye and the runes glowed as it closed once more.

            Ancano snarled and gestured, a wave of Alteration magic surging forth. Mirabelle gasped and crumpled to the ground, stiff as a board, as did Colette and Sergius. Bjarni threw up a Lesser Ward and deflected the Mass Paralysis spell, though his Ward shattered like glass under it. Faralda dual-cast Chain Lightning and destroyed all the sprites almost negligently. The other mages staggered but didn’t fall.

            It was stalemate between Ancano and Tolfdir. Bjarni sized up his options and took a deep breath, gathering his magicka into both hands. He’d never dual-cast two different spells but hey, today was a day to try new things.

            “Cattle die, kindred die, every man is mortal: But the good name never dies/Of one who has done well,” he chanted, calling on an ancient galdur to strengthen his Courage spell. “Cattle die, kindred die, every man is mortal: But I know one thing that never dies/The glory of the great dead.”

            Ancano sneered. “Is that what Nords call magic? How quaint.”

            Bjarni smiled grimly. “The old ones are the best.”

            And he threw Courage at Tolfdir, strengthening his resolve, and Fear at Ancano to break him.

            The Thalmor flinched, as Morokei had, and it was enough to break the stalemate. Tolfdir slammed the Staff down and the wave of energy struck the Eye, shutting it down before it got Ancano right in the face. He screamed, the high shrill cry of a rabbit being taken by a hawk, and… unravelled. That was the only way Bjarni could describe it.

            The winds died and the silence that followed was a gift from the gods.

            Quaranir said something in Altmeris and three other Psijics teleported into the Hall. “We will return this to Aetherius where it belongs,” the green-eyed Altmer said soberly. “Such things are not meant for mortals. Not even us.”

            “Will the Psijic Order be returning to Tamriel or remain sequestered on Artaeum?” Mirabelle asked as she was helped to her feet by J’zargo.

            Quaranir exchanged looks with his brethren and he sighed. “Apparently I have meddled too much, so I must remain here as adviser for the next century or so. The issue with the Thalmor will be settled by then, one way or another.”

            “A lot sooner than a century,” Bjarni said grimly.

            Onmund helped Tolfdir up. “That’s enough excitement for me,” the old mage observed.

            Enthir had thrown a cloak over Savos’ body. “So who’s the next Arch-Mage?”

            “Traditionally, the Master Wizard steps into the post,” Mirabelle said slowly. “But I believe in this case it should be Tolfdir. He’s the one who stopped Ancano.”

            “No,” Tolfdir said quietly. “I just used the Staff. It was the apprentices who saved us all.”

            “Well, I can’t hardly name one of them Arch-Mage!” Mirabelle retorted. “Of them all, only J’zargo is ready to be named as Journeyman. I’ll grant that Onmund and Brelyna aren’t far behind him but Bjarni-“

            “Savos knew he was going to die,” Urag interrupted. “I understand some of our conversations from context now. He said, ‘The Arch-Mage isn’t the greatest scholar or the most powerful mage. It’s the person who takes command in the worst situations and holds the College together’.”

            “In other words,” Faralda added, her sultry voice dripping scorn, “Savos has named Bjarni Ulfricsson as his successor. We can give you the paperwork if you want.”

            “What,” Bjarni said flatly. He was still exhausted. He misheard that.

            “Bjarni has raised the prestige of the College more than any other member of the faculty in a hundred years,” Tolfdir said quietly. “He’s improved relations with Winterhold. He’s a Thane with diplomatic immunity in all nine Holds. Things are tense with his family, true, but that’s a personal concern. He’s young and his command of magic needs a lot of work, but that young man is a leader. That’s what we need in these tumultuous times.”

            Mirabelle’s lips thinned. “It’s been decided?”

            “Since he left for Labyrinthian. Savos was trying to groom him for the role beforehand but Ancano didn’t give us enough time,” Drevis confirmed.

            “What,” Bjarni repeated.

            “’It’s not a contest,’ he says,” J’zargo muttered. “All the while he’s been playing to win.”

            Onmund patted the Khajiit’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’s still shit at Destruction magic.”

            “He’s not the choice _I’d_ make but who am I to gainsay the will of the Arch-Mage and the senior faculty?” Mirabelle said flatly.

            She turned to Bjarni, who was trying to gather his wits. “Will you accept the title of Arch-Mage?”

            “I suppose so,” he said. “Does this mean you’ll quit as Master Wizard?”

            “Lorkhan, no! We’ll need a competent Master Wizard more than ever.” Mirabelle nodded stiffly. “With all due respect… Arch-Mage.”

            It was Brelyna who cheered first with Onmund and J’zargo on her heels. Quaranir smiled cryptically; while they’d been distracted, his friends and the Eye had vanished. The other mages reacted as suited their natures; only Mirabelle looked unhappily resigned to the situation. If she didn’t get over herself, Faralda might wind up with her job.

            “Someone go and tell Korir it’s safe for everyone to come back to Winterhold,” Bjarni said, his smile slowly budding into a full-blown grin. “Tell Dagur to broach the ale casks. The drinks are on me!”


	18. Chapter 14: Blood Moon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Here end the adventures of Bjarni. Trigger warning for violence and fantastic racism.

 

_“It is the duty of the disciplined Psijic [‘Enlightened One’] to dilute change where it brings greed, gluttony, sloth, ignorance, prejudice, cruelty... [here Taheritae lists the rest of the 111 Prodigalities], and to encourage change where it brings excellence, beauty, happiness, and enlightenment.”_

Celarus the Loremaster, _The Old Ways_

“Hail to Savos Aren!”

            Bjarni Blue-Axe, Arch-Mage of the College and Thane of Winterhold, raised his flagon high and the others at the high table followed suit. Quaranir lifted his with a little more decorum than the Nords, who sloshed their favourite mead everywhere, and sipped the sweet-sour alcoholic beverage where others quaffed it with great gusto. The life of a Psijic required moderation in all things, so this would be his only flagon all night, but the performing of an ancestral blot required mead and multiple toasts. So far they’d toasted Bjarni’s paternal grandfather Hoag, a noted ruler of great compassion and tolerance, his maternal grandmother Catriona, reportedly a gifted sorceress from the Reach, Jarl Korir’s mother Gydda, of who it could best be said she tried, and the late Arch-Mage Savos Aren, whose actions laid the foundation of their victory over the Thalmor. Nord rituals for their honoured ancestors certainly weren’t tedious, to say the least!

            Winterhold had recovered from the predations of Ancano and his misuse of the Eye. It was still a small single-street village but the remaining ruins had been cleared and a wall of ice raised with generous provision for future growth. Quaranir, used to the subtle changing of the summery seasons in Artaeum, had learned how to read the equally subtle signs of the eternally frost-bound Hold. He’d also learned how to chop firewood, skin a rabbit and collect chicken’s eggs. It was, as the sailors would say, ‘all hands on deck’ in this isolated place.

            “Have we missed the ancestors of anyone who’d appreciate a blot-toast?” Bjarni asked of the high table. “I know Brelyna’s ancestors would raise from the grave in affront, but surely someone else has one. The best blots hail nine ancestors to balance the nine directions of the world, the nine earthbones of the gods, and the nine Holds.”

            “What about Quaranir?” Korir asked, hiccupping a little. The Jarl was certainly fond of food and drink when someone else covered the cost. “I don’t think he’s ever toasted anyone ever.”

            “That’s very true,” Faralda said, mock chiding in her voice. It had taken Quaranir a few months to get used to the easy teasing camaraderie of the College. “Psijics honour their ancestors.”

            Quaranir sighed inwardly, accepting the inevitable. Thankfully, he had an ancestor who would appreciate and even find some humour at being saluted Nord style. He rose to his feet. “I beg pardon if I get it wrong. We don’t exactly honour our ancestors with copious amounts of food and drink.”

            “That’s half your problem,” Korir said dryly. “Your ancestors are sourpusses and so therefore the Altmer are!”

            His wife Thaena smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Have some respect! This is a blot!”

            “You lift the flagon, hail your ancestor, and take a deep drink,” Bjarni advised with a smile. “Now hurry up. I have a cask of Barley-Beard ale chilling in the snow and the sujamma’s nearly ready to be poured.”

            Quaranir nodded and took a deep breath. “Hail to Rynandor the Bold!”

            He managed to drink a reasonable mouthful of mead without choking after lifting the flagon high, the others following suit. Thankfully, he sat down and was able to clear his throat without being too rude.

            They managed to find another four ancestors before Bjarni decreed the blot to be over. On the first anniversary of the victory over Ancano, the College was hosting the feast, and so the fare was a few cuts above what was generally served in the Frozen Hearth. Ragnar Broken-Tusk had provided a whole roast horker, the rich red meat a great delicacy around here, and entire salmon had been cleaned, filled with snowberries, and baked whole in a clay shell in the firepit. The College supplied the alcohol, a finer grade of goat’s cheese than was available in Winterhold, and three kinds of bread. To the people of Winterhold, this was a memorable feast.

            “Who’s Rynandor the Bold?” Korir asked in a slightly drunken too loud whisper to Faralda, seated next to his wife Thaena.

            “He was the first martyr of the Tamusen, the Dawn’s Rising,” she replied with a little more discretion. “The Thalmor exiled and murdered him for speaking out against their takeover of the Summerset Isles just after the Oblivion Crisis. The Tamusen are a bit like the Stormcloaks, except they just want the Thalmor gone, even if it means surrendering autonomy to the Empire.”

            It was more complicated than that, but while Korir was more intelligent than his actions let on, he was still unable to understand the subtleties of Altmer politics. “He was my grandfather,” Quaranir told the Jarl. “I think you’d have liked him. He was a warrior, not a sorcerer.”

            Korir smiled crookedly. “I’m beginning to appreciate sorcery to a certain extent. But an Altmer warrior? Isn’t that blasphemy or something?”

            “There are certain well-bred mer who believe so,” Quaranir said dryly. “It’s a very great pity you’d never meet my brother Fasendil. He’s a swordsman who quite likes Nords.”

            “Invite him up here!” Bjarni suggested with a grin.

            “That… would be awkward.” Quaranir sighed. “He’s a Legate in the Imperial Legion. He believes the Empire is the best option for defeating the Thalmor.”

            “Damn. I hope he never comes to Skyrim and if he does… I hope he never meets me on a battlefield,” Bjarni said softly. “It isn’t just about our freedom to worship as we wish, Quaranir.”

            “I know. It’s the grinding taxation, the conscription of your youth and the lack of anything in return,” the Psijic replied. “We study history, Bjarni. I know you’ve read _The Old Ways_.”

            “I have,” the Arch-Mage confirmed. “Needed Brelyna to translate some of the words, but I read it.”

            Quaranir sipped a little mead. Next to him, Onmund and J’zargo were snuggling together. Ragnar Broken-Tusk, to his credit, managed to hide the wince. Enlightenment took some longer to achieve than others and at least he was _trying_.

            “I want Winterhold to be the example of how people of many different races can work together for the greater good of Skyrim,” Bjarni continued quietly. “We desire our freedom, but it shouldn’t be at the cost of our consciences.”

            “I wish more Stormcloaks felt that way,” Drevis Neloren said as he helped himself to some of the clay-baked salmon.

            “I’m the Arch-Mage of the College, not the Jarl of Windhelm,” Bjarni said with a sigh. “I can offer advice but… I can’t make people listen.”

            “I know how you feel,” Quaranir agreed.

            They shared a smile of bittersweet camaraderie. How strange it was to discover he had so much in common with people who _might_ see two hundred years if they were diligent mages? At Brelyna’s insistence, Bjarni was learning the longevity magics, though he was still more partial to using a combination of Illusion magic and the strange ice-blue axe that hung at his side.

            A year from his tropical home and it didn’t feel like exile.

            The pendulum was shifting towards a civil war in Skyrim. The Nords were reacting to the collective tyranny of the Empire by supporting the isolationist tyranny of Ulfric Stormcloak and his wife Sigdrifa Stormsword. Korir was more open-minded than he used to be, it was true, but he still favoured Nords above anyone else and some of Winterhold’s more regressive laws hadn’t been struck from the books.

            There were other grim signs. The red moon was darker than usual, a crimson hue not unlike blood, and the creatures of Molag Bal were stirring. Did the vampires plan some sanguine ritual? Quaranir wished he had a circle of Psijics to scry the possibilities. The Vigilants of Stendarr might be able to counter the vampires, though in their zeal too many innocents (or relatively harmless people) would die.

            Quaranir brooded as the feast continued. It was only after the guests had dispersed, returning to the village or their quarters, that he finished his flagon of mead. The food and alcohol were thriftily bundled into take-home jars for everyone. The Nords practiced many of the virtues extolled by Psijics.

            He was walking towards the Hall of Countenance where he had a room when something flew down. He felt searing pain, a warm wet rush and then nothing as the darkness took him.


End file.
